Locked Box
by Blynneda
Summary: Spock and McCoy have their own little adventure, involving danger and a lot of banter, not necessarily in that order. COMPLETE
1. Trapped!

Author's Notes:  The more astute, or curious, among you may wonder if I was inspired by the humorous epics of Tavia, Keridwen, Rihannsu (or whatever she's calling herself this week), etc.  And the simple answer is:  NO!  Of course not, you fools!  Actually, yes.  However, I coincidentally (is that a coincidence that I wrote a story while others also wrote stories?) started this some time ago and stopped at a random point for no apparent reason.  I even knew where to go with it, just not…right at that point. And then I finally finished this part.   You can try to guess where I left off, if you like.  You won't get anything out of it, but go ahead.  Hint:  It's toward the end, in the middle of a paragraph.  So here it is, anyway.  Chapter 1, at least.  There's even a cliffhanger, for those of you who hate that sort of thing.  I just hope it matches up with our resident comedic geniuses.

LOCKED BOX 

                                                      Chapter 1: Trapped!

            McCoy awoke with a splitting headache.  He felt like someone had beamed his brain right out of his skull, then sent it back all scrambled.  And furthermore, he couldn't see a damned thing except those flashing bright spots.

            Whatever he was lying on, it was cold and hard as rock.  Why, in fact, now that you mention it, it very well might have been rock.  _Where the hell am I? _he thought.

            McCoy groaned and tried to massage his temples.  It was then that he discovered he wasn't alone.

            "Doctor?" Spock's voice said quietly, from somewhere to McCoy's right, he thought.

            "Spock!" McCoy cried, and immediately regretted it.  The noise echoed off whatever walls surrounded them and pounded back into McCoy's head like a hammer.  He groaned again.

            "Are you all right?" Spock asked, still quietly.

            As the surge of pain passed, McCoy felt a twinge of annoyance that Spock would bother asking such a ridiculous question.  But underneath that, he privately felt very happy that Spock was there.  He wasn't alone, and surely, if anyone could find a way out of this, Spock was the man.  Or Vulcan.

            McCoy ignored the question and asked, "Is it just me, or did somebody turn the lights out?"

            "If by that you mean to ask whether it is dark here, yes.  Very much so."

            "Except for the spots in front of my eyes…"

            "I believe that is an indication of a concussion.  As I recall, you received a severe blow to the head."

            "I know what it means!  I'd like to know why someone took it upon himself to conk me on the head with a brick."

            Spock was silent.

            "Did you see who it was?" McCoy asked.

            "I do not believe so."

            "Don't be_lieve_?  What's that supposed to mean?"

            "I must have been rendered unconscious shortly after you."

            "Hmm.  So you probably have a headache to match mine."

            Spock hesitated a second.  "Actually, I do not."

            "And why is that?  Are Vulcans impervious to being clubbed on the head as well?"

            "No.  I was rendered unconscious by…some other means."

            "Well, then, why the devil'd they have to hit me over the head?" McCoy complained, just loudly enough to make himself wince.

            "Perhaps it was because of your mouth."

            McCoy tried to scowl angrily, but it hurt too much; and besides, there was no point when Spock couldn't see him.

            "Have you examined…wherever we are?  Maybe even found an escape route?" he finally asked.

            "That has not been possible."

            "What?  Why?"

            "I have been unable to break my bindings."

            McCoy was confused.  "Bindings?  What are you talking about?  Do you mean you've been tied up?"

            "That would be the logical assumption.  Aren't you?"

            McCoy felt his wrists, then stretched to check his legs.  "No.  Not unless they're invisible."

            "Mine are not currently visible; however, I know they are there."

            McCoy tried to sit up, and paused while a wave of dizziness swept over him.  "Well, I guess our first step, then, is getting you free."

            Spock was skeptical.  "How do you propose to do that?"

            McCoy didn't feel like thinking about that just yet.  "I'll figure that out when I find you."

            "I believe I may be approximately 3.2 meters to your right."

            "Oh, three point _two_.  Okay."  McCoy got on one knee with his hand supporting him against the wall and floor.  "All right.  I'll be pleased if I can stand right now, thank you."  He actually managed to make it to his feet, but the subsequent vertigo nearly overwhelmed him.  "Is it me, or is this room rotating?" he said queasily.

            "To my knowledge, the room is quite stationary," Spock said helpfully.

            "Of course."  McCoy turned toward the sound of Spock's voice, trying to steady himself for a three-meter walk (three point two) through pitch darkness.  "Something just occurred to me," he began, in part to stall for time.

            "Should that surprise me?" Spock replied mildly.

            "Are we the only ones here?  How long had you been awake, before I came to?"

            "Perhaps an hour.  I heard your ragged breathing quite clearly, and only yours."

            "How did you know it was me?" McCoy asked, moderately puzzled.

            Spock didn't reply, so McCoy inhaled deeply to prepare himself.  And gagged.

            "What's wrong?" Spock asked, in as much alarm as he was likely to express.

            "I just noticed how horrible it smells in here!" McCoy said, coughing.  He steadied himself again.  "All right, I'm coming over."

            "I wondered if you were planning on doing so in the near future."

            McCoy ignored him and concentrated on putting one foot carefully and firmly in front of the other.  He tried closing his eyes to stop the flashing spots, but it didn't help.

            "Keep talking so I know where you are," McCoy said.

            "What shall I say?"

            "I don't care!  Just say _some_thing!"

            "I find it difficult to continue speaking when there is no topic of discussion."

            "Then figure out some new way to insult me!  Just keep that trap of yours moving for once!"

            Spock paused.  "I admit, at the moment, I am having difficulty finding a sufficient complaint about you."  As McCoy growled, he continued, "I _was_ becoming disturbed when you refused to awaken.  I tried calling your name a number of times, but you did not respond."

            "I was having a lovely nap—" McCoy broke off with a pained cry.  Spock immediately realized what had happened:  McCoy tripped over Spock's foot.  He should have realized how close McCoy was, and warned him.

            "Doctor?  Are you all right?"  Spock felt like he'd been through this before.  He had to wait several minutes before McCoy began to groan again.  "McCoy?"

            "Did you get them?" McCoy mumbled dazedly.

            "Get…who?"

            "Whoever it was knocked me on my head."

            "That…was me."

            "_What_?" McCoy nearly shouted, then moaned.

            "You tripped over my feet," Spock admitted.  Even McCoy could almost detect a certain sheepishness to his tone.

            "Well, what the devil are your enormous feet doing in the middle of the floor, just waiting for me to trip over them?"  McCoy's tirade was slightly less impressive on account of the pain.

            Spock expressed a fraction (11/168) of annoyance.  "Where shall you have me put them?"

            "You could've warned me:  'hey, watch out, there, Bones, you're one step away from falling on your face!'"

            "I apologize.  I miscalculated the distance, due to the distortion of noise in this room."

            "Oh, you mis_cal_culated!" McCoy was pleased in spite of himself.  "I don't suppose you'll admit to that when we get out of here!"

            "It would first be prudent to determine if it is actually possible to escape.  Another consideration is, who put us here and why?"

            "That's two considerations."

            Spock considered.  "True."

            "Well, it's a good question.  I thought you might be able to shed some light in that area.  I seem to be having trouble remembering anything that happened for the past…well, I don't know how long."

            "We can discuss that once you've freed me," Spock said pointedly.

            "Oh.  Yes."  McCoy shifted his body slightly.  It was going to be hard to try and move around again.  "Are you…nearby?"  McCoy reached out a hand and waved it around until he hit something.  He patted it several times.  "Is that you?"

            "You are currently stroking my leg."

            "Oh.  Sorry.  I guess I made it here, then, huh?"

            "Obviously."

            "Where's your hands?"

            "Tied behind my back."

            "Okay," McCoy said patiently.  "Where's your back?"

            "Behind me."

            McCoy paused.  "Are you trying to make this hard on me?  Because right now, the sound of my own voice reverberating in my skull is making me wish I was still unconscious."

            "I find it most interesting that at last _you_ are moaning at the sound of your voice," Spock replied.

            McCoy shifted onto his side.  "If I knew where you were, I'd consider pasting you one right now."

            Spock raised an eyebrow.  "Violence, Doctor?"

            "There isn't enough darkness in the universe to prevent me from knowing when you're doing that blasted eyebrow thing!" McCoy muttered.  Then he concentrated on dragging himself across the filthy floor, toward Spock's back.  "What I wouldn't do for an aspirin right now." [do they have aspirin in the future?]

            "I may be able to help you when my hands are free," Spock offered.

            "What, and perform one of your mind melds on me?  Wouldn't that transfer the pain to you?"

            "To some degree.  I can, however, handle pain."

            McCoy pulled himself forward another several inches, wincing at the pressure on bruises he didn't realize he had.  They must have done a number on him, whoever _they_ were.  "No, I'd rather have one of us clear-headed.  I'll deal with it."  Then he stopped.  "I'm not about to smash my head into a wall, am I?"

            "Possibly."

            "Thanks for the warning."  McCoy reached out again, and felt something soft and moist.  Spock recoiled next to him.

            "What was that?" McCoy said, pulling his hand back.

            "You just stuck your thumb in my eye," Spock replied calmly.

            "Oh.  Sorry.  Well, it's not like you'll be needing it anytime soon, huh?"

            "I would regardless prefer to keep my eye, assuming we escape this situation."

            "Yeah, you and your absurd desires."  McCoy pulled himself into a sitting position.  "Can you turn around so I can reach your hands?"   

            Spock awkwardly adjusted himself so he was leaning partially against the wall, with his hands in front of McCoy.

            McCoy groped for the bindings.  "Let's see what we can do about this."  He found the rope, almost a kind of wire, twisted tightly around Spock's wrists.  "Well, this can't be very comfortable."

            "I assure you, it is not," Spock said, his voice muffled by the wall.

            McCoy fumbled with the rope for several minutes in silence.  "I can't get the knot undone.  I'm not even sure there's a real knot here.  Do you have anything pointy?"

            "Besides my ears?" Spock asked dryly.

            McCoy smiled slightly in the dark.  "Well, yes, and sharp.  I need to cut through this rope."

            "I have nothing that could serve that purpose."

            "Damn," McCoy said, and patted down his pockets.  "Too bad I don't carry a scalpel around with me."

            "That could prove injurious to your health."

            McCoy sighed.  "I don't know what the hell to do here.  I'm gonna have to try using my teeth to cut the rope."  He paused.

            "Don't bite me," was Spock's response.

            He waited a beat, then said, "I'll try not to."  He bent over and tested the texture of rope between his lips.  The rope seemed difficult, but not impossible, to chew through.  "Okay.  It's wrapped around your wrists four times.  I'll try to break through a layer or two and let you go from there."

            "Agreed."

            "Now, just to keep me distracted from this, how about you fill me in on what's happened."  McCoy clamped his teeth around a piece of the rope and began to gnaw away.

            Spock hesitated, considering.  Then, he spoke.  "I believe this encounter began when we entered standard orbit around Skeptia Ture 6.  A small scientific landing party was assigned to a particularly intriguing region of the planet."

            McCoy paused in his gnawing.  "Who else is down here, then?"

            "Botanist Philips, geologist Nunez, and dendrologist Morrison were all members of the initial landing party, led by the two of us."

            "What do you think happened to them?"

            With a hint of annoyance, Spock replied, "I do not even know what has happened to us; at this point, I cannot speculate."

            McCoy grunted and returned to the rope.  Spock continued, "The most puzzling aspect of this problem is that we did not detect any form of sentient life on or around the planet.  What, then, is responsible for our abduction?"

            "So that's all the information you have?  The name of a random planet and a bunch of invisible aliens who attacked us and stuck us in a dark room?"

            "I do not see _you_ contributing to the pool of knowledge here, Doctor."

            "Well, I'm doing my part," McCoy said as he pulled furiously at the rope with his teeth.  Then, suddenly, he stopped with a curse, and grabbed at his face.

            "Is something wrong?"

            "No, I'm fine," McCoy murmured.

            "You don't sound fine."

            "I just caught my lip on the rope."  He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.  "I'm all right.  I'll be through this strand in another minute or two."  He set back to work, even more determined.

            "Doctor, I believe you are bleeding on me."

            "Look, do you want to be free or not?" McCoy growled.

            "I simply do not understand how you could have cut yourself deeply enough to continue bleeding for an extended period of time."

            "Spock…you're not helping."  McCoy muttered to himself.  "How am I gonna live this down, gnawing you out of this like some kind of rodent."

            Then, with a triumphant cry, McCoy said, "I've got it!  One of 'em, anyway.  See what you can do with that."

            Spock adjusted himself to a more stable position and tried to wriggle out of the ropes.  "I believe I can evade them now, if you will assist me."

            Together, they managed to get the bindings free of Spock's wrists.  Even Spock seemed pleased.  He tenderly stretched his arms in front of his body to loosen stiff muscles.  "Thank you, Doctor."

            McCoy tried to shrug it off as he touched his lips again to test the bleeding.  "It was nothing.  Now, just see about getting out of here."

            Spock stood and began to feel his way along the wall.  His fingers carefully probed every inch of the surface, searching for any escape possibilities.

            "I suppose I must have put up quite a fight.  I'm really feeling it now," McCoy winced.  "I don't think there's any part of my body that isn't bruised.

            Spock ignored him as he reached a strange crevice.  He examined it for a moment, then gave up on it and moved on.  "This room does not seem to be constructed by humanoids.  I believe it is a natural cave."

            "That's nice," McCoy said.  "Can you find a way out?"

            "I have not completed my initial examination."

            "Well, watch out.  There's probably a bear or something in here just waiting to maul you to death."

            "If a bear were waiting to maul us to death, it would have done so already," Spock replied patiently.

            McCoy shrugged.  "Well, if you get eviscerated and start spraying that green blood of yours around, don't come crying to me."  He paused.  "God, I wish I had my medical kit here.  A tricorder, at least, would do a world of good."

            Spock hesitated at the doctor's logic.  "How would I—"

            "It's an expression, Spock.  Relax."

            Spock continued to search the perimeter of the room.  He mentally began mapping the layout of the cave.  It was apparently an oblong oval surrounded on all sides by essentially solid rock, with one exception.  At the opposite end from where Spock had been placed (and where McCoy now sat), a series of crevices seemed to suggest the existence of an opening.  Currently, however, that opening was blocked by what amounted to a large…rock.  Quietly, Spock tested his strength against the rock.  It didn't budge.

            Spock decided not to mention the rock, or the opening, at this time.  He continued in the counter-clockwise route he had been taking, investigating other possibilities.

            "Find anything?" McCoy asked, more out of a desire to break the silence than any expectation that Spock would have reached a door, casually turned the knob, and walked out.

            When Spock didn't immediately respond, McCoy began to wonder if, in fact, there was a bear mauling him to death.  Well, he had to hand it to the bear, it was a very quiet mauler.

            "Spock?"

            "Yes, Doctor?" Spock said calmly, as if the mauling were not actually taking place, which, of course, it wasn't.

            "Anything?"

            "Nothing of particular note so far."

            McCoy heard a soft footstep somewhere in the vicinity of where he woke up, but then, he couldn't be certain.  Then he heard a skittering noise, the sort of sound plastic makes when it is kicked across a rock floor.

            "What was that noise?" McCoy asked.

            "I kicked something.  I believe it moved in your general direction."

            "What was it?"

            Spock paused just long enough to convey his annoyance, expressing a great deal of exasperation at the doctor's illogic in one short, split second of silence.  Especially considering he was a Vulcan.  McCoy, knowing Spock as he did, picked up on most of it.  "My feet do not possess sophisticated sensors that can identify objects they kick."

            "Well, that would be your shortcoming," McCoy drawled, realizing how stupid the question had been, anyway.  "I'll find it, whatever it is."

            "Based on the estimated velocity of my kicking force, and the probable mass of the object in question, I would predict that you may find it approximately 5.8 meters—"

            "Spock," McCoy stopped him.  "I'll find it.  Remember the last time you reported numbers to me?"

            "I am not currently in your path," Spock protested.

            McCoy crawled forward, feeling the ground around him.  He held a fraction of a hope that this small plastic object could be a communicator.  Then again, he worried that the rocky walls might prevent a signal from getting through, anyway.  But it was worth a shot.  _If _it was a communicator.

            As he searched, he heard Spock carefully moving toward him.  McCoy couldn't help wondering if Spock was crawling or at least duck-walking, or in some other ridiculous-looking position.  The thought had the strange effect of cheering McCoy up somewhat.

            Just then, both of his hands found two different and unequally surprising things.  His left hand brushed against the plastic object, which McCoy quickly determined by touch was his medical scanner.  "Got it," he announced.  "My scanner.  I must've had it in my pocket.  Not that it does a lot of good by itself, but maybe my tricorder's here, too."  He didn't seriously hold much hope for that, especially considering what his other hand was currently touching.

            "Spock," he murmured.  "I think you'd better check this out."  He clicked on the scanner, which emitted the faintest green light.  It really didn't help McCoy see any better, and in fact only made the surprise more disturbing and mysterious.

            The light, however, apparently allowed Spock to avoid tripping over McCoy.  He quietly reached McCoy's side.  "What is it?"

            "Feel that.  Right in front of us."  McCoy looked at the scanner's readings, but there was nothing on the display.  "I think I know why it smells so horrible in here, now."

            Spock reached in front of them and felt.  "I do not understand, Doctor."

            "Well, the scanner doesn't say anything, but I'm certain of it!"  He crawled ahead and felt again.  "Yes!  Here's another!"

            "_What_, Doctor?"

            "These are dead bodies, Spock."

HOW will they escape?  WHO has trapped them in this nefarious Chamber of DOOM?  And for WHAT devious purpose?  Find out in the next exciting chapter, coming soon!

Post A/N:  It's funny.  I started this as a half slapstick, half sappy-serious friendship story between Bones/Spock, without any apparent plot.  In the course of writing, I actually found a plot.  Chapter 1 is more expository slapstick, but next (or in Chapter 3, if it goes that way) comes the sappy part.  Be forewarned.

 Oh, and since I'm constantly seeking approval, please review!  It'll make my therapy sessions go by faster (j/k, I don't have a therapist.  But I may need one…if you don't bring me back from the edge of sanity, that is.  Then again, it's kinda fun here).


	2. Still Trapped!

_I'm glad you folks are enjoying this.  Just one question, LeoTurtle, too much suspense?  How do you get too much suspense?  That reminds me of something I said to a friend once when I was overworked:  "I need way too much sleep!"  I guess you prefer really dull stories, huh?  Well, I'll try to cut down on the suspense, I suppose.  Oh, wait, never mind, the ending is suspenseful.  Sorry._

_ Okay, I said there was a plot.  I didn't say how important it actually was to the story, nor did I mention anything about the pace of the story.  Here's a chapter which doesn't seem to particularly advance the plot, but…oh, well.  I neglected my studies for this, so you'd better like it!_

                                                     **Chapter 2:  Still Trapped!**

            "Dead bodies?" Spock repeated, as if little more than seconds had passed since McCoy first said it, which, in fact, was true.  "What sort of dead bodies?"

            "What do you mean, 'what sort?'" McCoy retorted.  "Bodies which are dead."

            "Are they bodies belonging to our crewmembers or to some other form of life?"

            "What?  Oh."  McCoy thought for a minute.  "Well, these ones have been here for a while.  They're already decomposing.  We haven't been here long enough for people to decompose."  He paused.  "Or have we?"

            "We cannot be certain.  There is no way to determine how much time has passed since we were apprehended."

            McCoy held up a hand to stop him, then realized Spock couldn't see it.  "Wait a minute.  There is a way to tell."  He rubbed his chin.  "Yes.  We can't have been here any longer than a day."

            "How did you determine that?" Spock asked skeptically.

            "_Vulcans_ grow beards!" McCoy exclaimed.  "Think logically, man!"

            "Ah," Spock replied with sudden recognition.  He stroked his chin stubble.  "I would disagree."

            "Disagree about _what_?" McCoy asked, annoyed.

            "I believe a more precise estimate of our unaccounted time would be fifteen hours and…" he paused as he considered another stroke of the chin, "forty three minutes."

            McCoy didn't say anything for a minute.  If there had been light in the chamber, Spock would have seen a particularly interesting-looking gaped-mouth expression on McCoy's face.  As it were, Spock presumed that McCoy was considering this estimation in the context of his own evaluation.

            Finally, McCoy spoke.  "Under what circumstances, exactly, have you had the occasion to time your beard growth down to the _minute_?"

            Spock sighed.  "It is simply an estimation based on natural hair growth, taking into account the recent absence of certain vitamins—"

            "Never mind," McCoy interrupted.  "I don't want to know."

            Spock paused.  "Why do you—"

            McCoy went on, raising his voice to overwhelm Spock's.  "So that means these bodies aren't those of our landing party."

            "It would seem not," Spock agreed.

            "Unless…" McCoy trailed off.

            "Unless?" Spock asked.  If he could feel the sort of dread McCoy felt whenever he prompted an idea out of Spock, he would have felt it now.  

            "Well, say we're on a planet with a higher metabolism, so to speak," McCoy began amiably, rising to the bait.

            "Higher metabolism?" Spock said, even at the expense of fueling the doctor's illogical suggestion.

            "Sure!  Life grows at a different rate here than on Earth—or Vulcan—which, consequently, includes bacteria and other decaying agents.  So, while by Earth's standards, these bodies have been here for several weeks, by this planet's standards—what's the name of it again?"

            Spock was still working his way through the explanation, and nearly missed his cue.  "Skeptia Ture 6," he provided.

            "Exactly.  By Skeptia Ture 6's standards, they've been dead here for…fifteen hours and forty minutes."  McCoy finished with a satisfied air.

            "Forty six," Spock corrected.  "Approximately."

            "Of course," McCoy conceded, undaunted.

            "I do not believe that is so."

            "It's just a hypothesis, Spock."

            "This hypothesis has no evidence to support it."

            McCoy scowled.  "Well, I'd like to see you come up with a working hypothesis—in the dark—with all the evidence we've got here to work with."

            "They are not the bodies of our landing party for the simple reason that they are not large enough to represent a human body.  This one, for example," and McCoy could only presume that Spock was indicating one of the bodies in front of them, "is approximately two and one-half feet in length."

            McCoy was silent.

            "Doctor?"

            "That might work," he grudgingly admitted.

            They were quiet for several seconds, both still kneeling before the rotting corpses that, apparently, were indigenous to the planet.

            "Perhaps we should return to our earlier location.  We shall be able to evaluate your injuries more thoroughly with the scanner."

            "Oh.  Yeah," McCoy said, feeling beside him for the nearly forgotten (by him, at least) scanner.  He picked it up.

            Spock stood and reached down to pull McCoy up after him.  "At least the scanner will allow me to examine your head."

            McCoy struggled to his feet, trying to ignore the screaming of bruised or cracked ribs.  Slowly, but not as slowly as McCoy would have gone if he were alone, they returned to the spot Spock had been when he was tied up.  "That's all I need," McCoy grumbled on the way, "getting my head examined by you."

            Spock seemed slightly nonplussed.  "I realize I am not a doctor; however, I may be able to provide some assistance with your injuries.  To reject that assistance would be illogical."

            "Forget it, Spock," McCoy said through clenched teeth.

            "Sit," was Spock's response.

            "What?"

            "We have reached the wall.  You may sit down now."

            "Oh."  McCoy did so, painfully.  And with a few groans.  Spock kneeled beside him.

            McCoy waited.  "Well?"

            "The scanner," Spock prompted.

            "Oh!" McCoy realized the device in question was still in his hand.  He passed it over, a feat made more clumsy by the fact that neither knew where the other's hands were.  Even Spock had trouble smoothly taking the scanner in what probably amounted to his only awkward moment.  Ever.

            Spock turned the scanner on and held it over McCoy's head.  The LED display lit up, allowing him to read the results.  "You appear to have been struck on the back of your head with a blunt object."

            "Really?  Thank you, Doctor."

            Spock ran the scanner over the rest of McCoy's body.  "Are you experiencing pain in your right wrist?"

            "Why, no," McCoy said with mock surprise.  "In fact, that's the only part of my body that _isn't_ screaming in pain right now."

            Spock paused.  "That is odd.  According to the scanner, the end of your radius is fractured, which is causing considerable swelling.  In addition, the trapezoid bone is slightly dislocated."

            "What's so odd about that?"

            "These injuries would likely result in considerable pain; however, you claim to feel nothing in this area."

            "I was joking, Spock."

            "Pain does not seem a particularly welcome topic for humor.  Especially for humans.  I may be able to lessen this pain."  Without waiting for McCoy's response, Spock grasped his wrist in both his hands and performed a minute adjustment.  He did so very calmly.

            McCoy did not react very calmly.  He didn't even have time to yelp in pain, so he resigned himself to sucking air in through his teeth at the sudden jolt to the affected nerve endings.  When he recovered his bearings enough to think in words, the only ones he could think of were obscenities.  He made do with a few of those.  "What was _that_ for?" he finally growled.

            Spock was entirely unaffected.  "That was for the proper healing of your wrist.  It was not aligned correctly.  Also, I believe your wrist will not be as pained when you move.  I would have thought that you, a doctor, would have known that."

            "I _do_ know that!" McCoy continued to growl as he cradled his wrist to his chest.  "You could have warned me about it first!"

            "That would not have altered the amount of pain you felt," Spock said mildly.

            "I don't care!"  McCoy willed himself to calm down.  "Spock…"

            "Yes, Doctor?"

            "Don't do me any more favors."

            "Do you mean in the foreseeable future—"

            "Ever."

            "I shall take that into consideration."

            "Don't…consider, Spock."

            Spock paused.  "I believe I am losing the thread of this conversation."

            "So am I."

            They didn't say anything for a while.

            "You also have several fractures in your ribs," Spock offered.

            "That's nice," McCoy said with a grimace.  "You're not touching my ribs."

            "Yes, Doctor."

            McCoy gradually relaxed and pulled himself out of a fetal position.  "Spock, is there anything else in here?  A tricorder or communicator…small explosives?  Anything we could use?"

            "I shall check," Spock said and slipped away like a jungle cat.

            While he was gone, McCoy wondered idly if there were any jungle cats on this planet.  And if so, whether they spent much time in caves.

            "There is nothing else," Spock said in McCoy's ear.  McCoy jumped.

            "Where did _you_ come from?" he exclaimed.

            "I have been in this cave with you the entire time.  That is, the entire time we have both been conscious…"

            "Did you find anything?"

            "No."

            "Terrific."  McCoy scratched the back of his head.  Then he winced as his hand scratched the bruised area.  His hair was crusted with blood.  "So, our entire hopes of escape lie in that pathetic little scanner?"

            Spock flicked the scanner on again.  It made a funny little whirring sound and emitted the faintest light onto McCoy's arm.  "Apparently."

            McCoy glanced over at the greenish glow.  "You can't turn it into a phaser or something, can you?"

            "No.  I cannot."

            "Of course not."

            "What exactly does that mean, Doctor?" Spock asked quietly.

            "Nothing," McCoy said, perhaps too innocently.

            "I see," Spock replied, in a tone which subtly indicated his annoyance at the doctor.

            They stopped talking for an undetermined amount of time.  Actually, it was only undetermined to McCoy.  Spock knew that a time span of 6 minutes and 32 seconds passed between his last words and McCoy's next words.  Also, in this time, he debated whether the previously mentioned rock blocking the only accessible exit to the chamber could be moved with McCoy's assistance.  And if so, exactly what pressure points would allow the most force to be targeted in an outward direction.  In McCoy's debilitated condition, exactly what amount of force could he reasonably be expected to produce?  Normally, he did not display any great amount of strength, and he would likely protest at any particularly strenuous activity.  If Spock could convince McCoy that it could be their only escape route…

            "Well," McCoy interrupted his thoughts, in a tone indicating a certain decisiveness, as if McCoy had been carefully considering this possibility, "someone must have a pretty cruel sense of humor, throwing us together like this."

            Spock tried to follow his line of reasoning, wondering if he had somehow missed some of the argument.  Then he recalled exactly who was sitting next to him.  Spock decided on the safest response he could think of.

            "I do not think this situation is a joke," he said.

            "No kidding," McCoy said dryly.

            "Again, you are apparently joking in a serious situation which does not warrant humor."

            "What?"

            "I do not understand your sense of humor, Doctor."

            "Well, right now, I don't understand a damn thing about _you_!" McCoy retorted, not the most intelligent of his comebacks, but it had to suffice.  Then he sighed.  "See, this is exactly what I'm talking about.  Whenever we're together for longer than ten seconds, we can't seem to avoid an argument."

            Spock considered.  "I agree."

            "Exactly!"

            Spock traced the conversation back to its starting point.  "Therefore, you believe that our imprisonment together is an attempt at maliciousness?"

            "Yes," McCoy said confidently.

            Spock was skeptical.  "How would an alien entity recognize our relationship and thus exploit it for no apparent benefit?"

            "Well, the first part is very easily explained.  How many aliens have we encountered now representing some form of energy or matter or _life_ that we've never before seen?  And how many of those introduce themselves to us and call us by name?  We probably found another one of them."

            "Perhaps," Spock said, thinking the exact opposite of "perhaps."

            McCoy nudged Spock's arm in a sudden epiphany of understanding.  "I've got it.  Maybe this is a test, or, or, some sort of experiment.  We're the lab rats of some ultra-sophisticated culture who've forgotten their humanity and they're testing to see how well we work together.  We were probably bickering when they came upon us."

            "That is most probable," Spock admitted.

            'So they're probably testing us to see if we can cooperate, or if we royally screw up and get ourselves killed."

            "Perhaps you should rest, Doctor," Spock murmured.

            "Don't you think it's a valid possibility?  We just have to work together and we'll get out of this fine."

            "Of course," Spock said absently.

            "Now you're just humoring me," McCoy said angrily.

            "I would prefer if you stopped talking so I can determine a way out of here," Spock said in a slightly raised voice.

            "Fine," McCoy said.  "I won't say another word."

            He was quiet for precisely seven minutes—Spock wondered if he'd somehow timed it.  "Just a thought:  if those aren't our crewmen over there…what are they doing in here?"

            Spock's reflections had not been within twelve light years of McCoy's train of thought.  "Doctor?"

            "Those bodies," McCoy said by way of explanation.

            "I have not given that much thought."

            "Well, don't you think it's important?  If we know why they're here, it might give us an idea of why we're here."

            "Perhaps you should concentrate on how to escape rather than why we are here."

            "I _am_, dammit!  Can't you see they're connected?" McCoy snapped.

            "Then feel free to consider the ramifications of that while I follow my own concerns."

            "I think I'll do that," McCoy said defensively.

            They sat there thinking for a longer period of time than would be reasonable to detail here.  All that either could hear was the other's breathing.   Not that that detail has any relevance; it's really just to set the mood.  It's quiet.  And dark, don't forget.  It's always been dark.  Hmm, does "set the mood" bring thoughts of a totally different nature to your mind?  That wasn't my intention at all.  Erase that thought from your heads.  This isn't that kind of story at all.  Go read some slash if you're going to think that.

            McCoy interrupted the silence, as well as the narrator's ramblings.  "Do you think we were attacked by Klingons?"

            Spock almost didn't bother gracing that with an answer.  Finally, he relented.  "What sense does that make?  There is no logic whatever to support that idea."

            "Just a suggestion."

            A little more silence.  If you'd like to replicate this situation, turn out your lights (and your computer monitor) and sit in the dark for a while.  Make sure it's quiet.  If you have family, tell them to shut up.  And if you're in a public computer lab (as I currently am, as a side note), well, don't even bother.  Use your imagination.  That's what I'm doing.

      McCoy yawned, quite loudly in the comparative silence.  "I wonder how long it's been since I've really slept."

      "You might benefit from some sleep now," Spock replied.

      "I don't know how I'll manage to.  I've still got that throbbing in my temples," McCoy mumbled.  "Although my wrist feels a bit better."

      "I'm sure if you are tired, you will succeed in falling asleep," Spock said practically.

      "Yeah, right."

      "There is nothing else for you to do at this point."

      "Maybe," McCoy admitted.  "All right.  I'll give it a try."  He shifted himself into a more reclining position.  But not a more comfortable one.

      "Spock?"

      "Yes, Doctor?"

      McCoy reached out and grabbed Spock's arm and held it for a moment.  "Don't, uh…" he laughed a little, as if to make light of his request, "don't go too far away, huh?  I don't want to wake up thinking I'm all alone."

      Spock didn't say anything for several seconds.  Just as McCoy was beginning to berate himself for even mentioning it, Spock answered softly.  "I shall be right here, Doctor."

      McCoy smiled slightly in the darkness and drew his hand back.  He closed his eyes and folded his hands on his chest.  He was not comfortable in the least.  He wondered sometimes if the beds on the _Enterprise_ were designed specifically to be uncomfortable—well, Jim's bed was probably feather-soft, he's the captain, after all, and Spock was immune to discomfort, anyway.  He told himself he'd never complain about real beds again.  At least not for a few weeks, anyway.

      Before he knew it, he was actually relaxing.  Sleep couldn't be too far away, then.  McCoy tried to stop his mind from wandering into random thoughts (escape often came to the forefront).

      Everything, once again, was quiet for some time.  Spock had, of course, been keeping track of this (time, that is), but he was probably the only one who really cared at this point.  McCoy certainly didn't.

      McCoy, in fact, was just beginning to drift off into something resembling sleep when he felt it:  just the barest of a feather touch on his cheek, the slightest draft of air over his face.  He kept his eyes closed, not that opening them would have meant anything.  And then Spock's fingers found their proper positions and McCoy felt the first twinges of a telepathic attachment.  _That sneaky bastard!_ was all he could think, wondering with a detached part of his brain how that might transfer into Spock's head—as words, or simply as the burst of emotion he felt.

            McCoy pushed Spock's hand away, although Spock had already conceded and drew it back himself.  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

            "You were complaining of pain earlier.  I was simply trying to aid you by alleviating that somewhat."

            "I already told you, no.  I'll deal with it."

            Spock hesitated just a fraction of a second.  "I was doing it for my own benefit, to stop your incessant complaining.  It has been distracting me."

            McCoy paused, wondering if Spock was telling the whole truth, or at least exaggerating somewhat.  "Well, you know I'm going to complain anyway, so don't bother."

            Spock nodded.  "That is true."

            McCoy waited for something more out of Spock.  Then he said quietly, "Spock…thanks."

            Spock didn't say anything.

            McCoy decided to change the subject, realizing that neither of them were comfortable with the present one.  "What do you think they're planning?"

            "Planning?"

            "Yes, planning.  Most importantly, right now, are they planning on feeding us?"

            "Are you hungry?" Spock asked.

            McCoy rolled his eyes.  "No, I'm just asking out of curiosity.  I suppose eventually I'll be hungry.  But no, right now I'm too busy cowering in the corner to worry about little things like sustenance."

            "You have a keen tendency for sarcasm, Doctor."

            "Really?  Thank you."  McCoy continued, "The point is, what's our status here?  Are we prisoners?  Are they intending on feeding us and keeping us alive, or have we just been left to die?  Or are they going to kill us soon?  In either of the latter cases, our escape will have to come from our own resources.  And quickly."

            "I have been taking that into account," Spock replied.

            Just then, the rock at the end of the chamber began to shift in a rumbling, grinding growl.  (Said rock's existence, the reader may note, is known to Spock, but not to McCoy.)

            "What's that?" McCoy asked, startled.

            "Quiet, Doctor."

            "What?  Don't tell me to—"

            "Do not make noise.  I believe we are about to learn the answers to your questions."

            "I'd be satisfied with a release at this point.  No questions asked," he grumbled.

            The rock moved to the side, letting in the faintest light from outside the cave.  It was night.  Which made sense, Spock reasoned.  It was at latest early afternoon when they had been abducted.

            There was nothing there.

            Just as McCoy had convinced himself that they were being released, and started to pull himself to his feet, with Spock firmly holding him back, an enormous bulk suddenly filled the space opened by the rock.  It was quite a large hole.  Therefore, whatever this bulk was, it was obviously pretty damn big.

            McCoy sat back.

            The Large Thing started to enter the cave.  Very, very slowly.

*  *  *

_Too much suspense for you?  Tough noogies._

_Question of the day:  Who has been on the receiving end of the most mind melds?  Spock's, to be specific.  Offhand, I can think of two occasions for Bones, "Mirror, Mirror" and "Spectre of the Gun."  Anyone know?_

_Do you think it's abnormal to be obsessed with a fictional character that was 20 years your senior 35 years ago?  No?  Of course not.  That's what I thought, too._

_I actually considered classifying this story as Action/Adventure, but then when I thought about it, it occurred to me that the adventure consisted solely of Bones and Spock being stuck in a cave, and the action featured Bones running into/tripping over things (or Spock).  Not to mention their scintillating conversation.  So, instead, it's a dramedy, which always reminds me of camels._


	3. They Haven't Escaped Yet, Folks!

Since I've been threatened with attack by…let's see…first llamas ("I shall do neither.  For I have killed my llama…and my friend."), then tribbles (a whole army, no less!), and finally, Tavia ("Kirk!" I say, scoffingly.), I'd better get a move on.

            I'd like to thank all my reviewers, especially the ones who really like the story.  Wait a minute, that would be all of you.  Which, of course, makes sense.  Obviously, you'd like it.  Don't worry, I haven't let my success go to my head.  I'm normally like this.

            There used to be something long and dull about archaeology here, but I deleted it.  Because it was dull.  And long. 

                                             **Chapter 3: They Haven't Escaped Yet, Folks!**

            McCoy didn't move.  Spock didn't move.  The Large Thing, however, did move.  Very, very slowly, but it was moving.

            In more time than it takes to tell here, the Large Thing entered the cave and headed directly for the bodies in the center of the chamber.  Of course, if it had taken some kind of meandering path, McCoy would have looked like he did when he got that disease that ages people really fast by the time the Thing finally got there.

            As it were, McCoy (the normal, relatively young version) sat frozen in place, which he was starting to regret since he wasn't in the most comfortable position.  It was the sort of position, at least, that one wouldn't normally enjoy being frozen in.  His back was just slightly tensed, so he wasn't so much reclining against the wall as sitting next to it, mostly touching it…well, if you don't get the idea, suffice it to say, it wasn't especially comfortable, and it was getting less comfortable by the second.

            Also, Spock inexplicably still had his hand on McCoy's shoulder.  If it were the other way around, McCoy could understand.  That could express you were startled, and comforting yourself that someone was next to you, and, if the Large Thing were the sort to eat people, could possibly be eaten before you and spare your life.  McCoy figured these thoughts probably didn't spend much time in Spock's head.  They'd get lonely with all the sterile numbers and formulae and set off for more fruitful pastures.

            But, anyway, the Large Thing, which is the subject of this particular episode, was still there.  And coming closer.  And closer.  Slightly closer.  After that, an inch or two closer.  When could it possibly end?!

            It started to end when the Large Thing stopped.  A point which was probably already established, but it has been restated for your convenience.  Anyway, the Large Thing stood (or sat, or something) in front of the bodies for what may have been years, but since nothing really changed around them—darkness into daylight or that sort of thing—it was most likely much less time.  A minute, perhaps.

            The Large Thing was only a few meters away from McCoy and Spock, which felt like less distance because it was so Large.  To McCoy, it did.  To Spock, it felt like precisely 6.3 meters, which it was.

            Nobody said anything.  Unless the wheezing of the Large Thing could be considered speech.  But then, McCoy wasn't really interested in exchanging general pleasantries because "pleasant" was not a word that came to mind with respect to this Thing.  And he hadn't even really seen it yet.

            McCoy would have held his breath during this little incident, but if he tried to, he'd have started losing oxygen in his brain and probably would end up swooning.  Swooning would be interpreted as neither manly nor heroic.  He contented himself with breathing very shallowly.  Through his mouth.  The horrible smell of (he now determined) decay was not in the least lessened by the improved ventilation.  If anything, the arrival of the Large Thing only made it worse.  Probably because the Large Thing was eating the decaying corpses.  Or one of them, anyway.

            Because very little was actually happening, McCoy was spending a great deal of time thinking.  Some of those topics we've touched upon.  His discomfort, for example.  The still unexplained hand of Spock, which neglects the entire rest of Spock.  Various other thoughts passed through McCoy's head, some of them perhaps an overflow from Spock's, as if these thoughts were going bar-hopping and left the first place because it was dull, and a bit square.  "Now, here's a good time," they'd think, arriving at McCoy's.

            Whether this specific thought actually went through McCoy's head right now we cannot be certain, but let's forget about that anyway for the sake of the plot.  (Plot? you ask, bemused.)

            Considering the amount of time it took to get there, the Large Thing didn't spend very long hanging around the bodies.  After a minute or so snuffling around the corpses, it began to move again.  It didn't seem to turn around or anything, so it could have been walking backwards.  Maybe it had eyes and legs facing both directions.  For the sake of his nerves, McCoy wasn't really interested in finding out exactly, scientific curiosity notwithstanding.  When one is being held hostage by a Large Thing, specifically a Large Hungry Thing—much hungrier than McCoy, he decided—scientific curiosity tended to get shoved to the back burner.  Er…perhaps the cooking-related analogy wasn't the best to use here.

            The Large Thing, McCoy realized with some surprise, completely ignored our heroes in blue.  Not that it would be more likely to notice them if they were in some other color.  Well, _red_, maybe.  It simply left, apparently carrying (in its mouth? hands?) one of the corpses with it.

            Spock stood up quietly as the Large Thing reached the entrance of the cave, but not before patting McCoy's shoulder in what McCoy hoped was some kind of reassurance that he would return shortly.  He certainly hoped Spock wasn't thinking of tackling the Large Thing, especially if he was also expecting McCoy's help in the matter.

            McCoy strained to follow Spock's movements, but he kept to the shadows along the wall.  It was probably wiser than strolling out in the middle, come to think of it.

            Then McCoy could hear the rock rumbling back into place, and the very faint light slowly faded.  For a panicked few seconds, McCoy worried that Spock had escaped and left him alone in the dark, unpleasant cave to rot and starve and die.  Not exactly in that order.  He almost started to curse Spock out, silently, of course.

            "The exit is completely blocked again," Spock said quietly into his left ear.  McCoy jumped.

            "You're still here!" he whispered.

            "Where else would I be?" Spock replied mildly.

            "I don't know…I thought—well, never mind what I thought," McCoy said, still whispering.

            "There is no need to whisper, Doctor," Spock said in a comparatively loud voice that made McCoy jump again.

            "Don't do that!" he rasped.

            "Talk?"

            "No!  I—"

            "Did you think that I would leave you alone in here?"

            "Well…" McCoy wondered sometimes if Spock was psychic.  Telepathic, yes.  Was that the same thing?  McCoy was getting confused.

            "I believe the captain would be somewhat displeased if I returned to the ship without you."

            "So, why did you…?"

            "Follow the creature to the passageway?" Spock finished.  "I was attempting to learn something that might help us escape."

            McCoy waited.  "And…?"

            "And?" Spock repeated.

            "What did you find?"

            "Nothing."

            "Nothing as in, 'there's no way in hell we're getting out of here?'"

            Spock considered.  "I believe that is a crude, but basically accurate way of describing my findings."

            "Splendid."

            "In what way?"

            "What?"

            "Your response is indicative of a favorable reaction, however, the conclusion that we are unable to escape would not—"

            "Shut up.  If I'm going to die, at least don't make me listen to your ridiculous…" descriptive words failed him, "…_logic_."

            "Logic?"

            "I don't know!" McCoy cried.

            Spock didn't say anything for some time.  He decided it would be safer to wait before continuing the conversation, as McCoy was becoming increasingly unstable.

            "So now what?" McCoy finally asked, relatively calmly.

            "There is a possibility," Spock admitted.

            "What kind of possibility?" McCoy asked suspiciously.

            "The rock which is blocking the exit does not seem to be in place as firmly as before.  It is possible that we could move it enough to escape."

            McCoy thought about it.  "Wait a minute.  Did you say 'as before?'  As in, you knew about this exit earlier?"

            "Yes," Spock said, with some hesitation.

            "Why the hell didn't you mention it?!" McCoy shouted.

            "It was not pertinent," Spock said quietly.

            "Not _per_tinent!  The only exit in the entire cave, and he says that's not pertinent!" McCoy appealed to the roof of the cave.  "I don't suppose you'd like to tell me what information you might consider pertinent."

            "I was not positive this information could result in escape.  I needed to consider it."

            "Consider it?  What's to consider?  After all this time, your suggestion now is, 'let's push the rock and maybe we'll get out.'"

            "I have been calculating the necessary force to move the rock," Spock said calmly.

            McCoy inhaled as if preparing to shout back his response, but held it back at the last second.  In a more subdued tone, he continued, "Generally, and I suppose I speak with some degree of experience here, when you come up with an idea that might help you escape from a cave—well, I guess it applies to any situation, really—you give it a go, without sitting down to analyze it first."

            "I shall keep that in mind."

            McCoy leaned forward, ready to stand up.  "So have you finished your calculations?"        

            "My calculations?"

            "Are we going to try it, or aren't we?"

            "Yes," Spock said, and stood.  He leaned down to aid McCoy.

            "Ow!" McCoy protested loudly.  "If you're going to help me up, at least try not to wrench my arm out of joint when you're doing it."

            Spock ignored him.  With a hand on McCoy's arm to guide him, Spock led him over to the far end of the chamber.  He found the rock with little difficulty and released McCoy.

            "So, what do I do?" McCoy asked.

            "Push, Doctor."  Spock found a suitable section and prepared himself.

            "No kidding, Spock!" McCoy grumbled, exasperated.  "_Where_?"

            "Here."  Spock guided him by touch.

            "All right."  McCoy got himself into position.  "Ready?  You wanna go on three?"

            "A reasonable decision."

            "Okay.  One, two, three—Spock!"

            Spock stopped pushing.  "What?"

            "You're not supposed to start until _after_ three, you dimwitted Vulcan!"

            Spock paused.  "You specified 'on three.'  Logic dictates that to mean—"

            "Logic, my foot!  Everyone knows 'on three' means you count to three and _then_ push!"  McCoy shook his head.  "Logic."

            "I believe you are wrong, Doctor."

            "All right, then, we'll try it again.  Ready?"

            "Ready."

            "One, two, _three_…"  McCoy pushed, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his ribs.  He couldn't ignore Spock, of course.

            "Doctor?" Spock said, expending no effort whatsoever.

            McCoy grunted and stopped, catching his breath.  "What did you do now?"

            "I assumed that you, in your natural bullheadedness, would continue to follow your method.  And so, I conceded a minor point."

            "Bullheadedness?" McCoy growled.  "I'll show _you_ bullheadedness!"  Actually, it was an empty threat, since McCoy didn't dare go charging into open space in case that open space was suddenly punctuated by closed rock.  Also, his ribs hurt.

            "Perhaps we should try again," Spock replied, unfazed.  "I will count to three, and then say 'push,' at which point we shall both push.  Agreed?"

            "Fine," McCoy said sullenly.

            "One, two, three, push."  They pushed.  And pushed.  And pushed.  McCoy gritted his teeth so hard it was a wonder they didn't champ through each other so the bottom jaw was on top and vice versa.  He wanted to scream at the happily active nerve endings in his torso, but refrained, if for no other reason than to show Spock he didn't always complain.

            Spock was also pushing.  Since his strength was naturally greater than McCoy's was in perfect health, his own contribution was considerably larger.

            Not that this effort did a whit of good.  The rock refused to budge.  If the rock were sentient (which, for the purposes of this story, it isn't), it might have laughed at the two Starfleeters at this point, or at least snickered.  Despite McCoy's imaginings to the contrary, however, it did not.

            "Spock," McCoy gasped, "we're not getting anywhere."

            "No," he replied and stopped.

            McCoy stopped and sighed, slowly sinking to the floor in exhaustion.  "Well, man makes plans, God laughs," he muttered.

            Spock didn't bother to ask for clarification.  "It appears that this possibility of escape will not bear fruit."

            "Brilliant observation, Sherlock."

            "My name is not Sherlock," Spock commented.

            "Okay…Inspector Spock.  Any more earth-shattering revelations?"

            "Not at this time."

            "Are you holding back any fascinating details I might be a bit surprised to discover later?" McCoy asked, laying the sarcasm on with a trowel.

            Spock was as impervious to the sarcasm as…something that resists whatever goop McCoy was metaphorically troweling around.  "No," he said simply.

            "Oh.  Terrific.  So we're in as bad a situation as we were at the beginning!"

            "Not entirely.  I am not tied up in the corner," Spock replied.

            "Okay, even _worse_!"

            Spock hesitated.  "Are you joking here, Doctor?"

            "That's a good question."

            Spock relented and slid down to the floor next to McCoy.  "Apparently, we must remain here until some external force changes our present circumstances."

            "Yeah."  McCoy paused.  "Do you think Jim's looking for us?"

            "I imagine he has already given up any hopes of retrieving us and continued on his mission."  Spock said this so seriously that for several seconds McCoy wholeheartedly believed him, which just goes to show how desperately in despair he was.

            "He can't just leave us behind…can he?" McCoy asked hesitantly.

            "I strongly doubt the captain would leave his two most senior officers—and friends—behind to die, regardless of the cost," Spock relented.

            "Yeah," McCoy nodded with a reassured grin.

            "However, the _Enterprise_ will be unable to track us.  We have no communicators and the rock likely blocks our life signs from being detected."

            "Great.  All that blasted technology and it doesn't do a damn bit of good when it counts."

            "I'm sorry, Doctor."

            "What?  What are you apologizing for?" McCoy asked, almost annoyed.

            "I have been unable to find an escape route.  I also, perhaps, ruined our only opportunity, when that creature entered."

            "Yeah, speaking of which," McCoy said, pointedly ignoring the apology, "what do you make of that thing?"

            "Some sort of carnivorous creature, apparently.  Possibly a scavenger."

            "Why did it ignore us?"

            Spock thought for a moment.  "A possible explanation is that the creature lacks refined sensory organs to detect us in the dark.  We made little or no noise and did not move.  In short, it did not know we were there."

            "But wouldn't it know if it had already put us in here?" McCoy insisted.

            "That depends on one key point—is this creature responsible for our abduction?"

            McCoy felt slow.  "As opposed to what?"

            "Perhaps another, unknown, entity, is responsible for capturing us, and placed us in the cave of this creature."

            "Do you think that's actually possible?"

            "It would seem logical to conclude that this isn't our abductor, as it apparently moves too slowly to have come upon us unaware.  Regarless, I must keep it in mind while we exhaust all other possibilities."

            McCoy considered.  "So, you're saying that maybe Romulans, for example, captured us and left us here to be devoured by that hideous thing?"

            "I did not mention Romulans," Spock said icily.

            "Okay, okay, don't get testy.  I'm just trying to exhaust all possibilities.  Like you said," McCoy replied.

            Spock faintly sighed, but didn't say anything.

            "Maybe we can just wait and see if the creature—or anybody, for that matter, I won't be picky—comes along and opens up the cave."

            "We have little choice in the matter."

            McCoy and Spock sat in silence for some time, both enveloped in their own thoughts, much as in the previous chapter.

            Finally, McCoy sighed loudly.  "Well, this is remarkably dull, don't you think?"

            Spock didn't answer.

            Undaunted, McCoy continued.  "You'd think Jim could manage to pull out all the stops for us—me, anyway—and at least try looking for us.  I'll probably die of boredom before anything else.  And you—"  McCoy turned to face Spock, or at least his general direction.  "You're something else entirely.  Normally, in a life-threatening situation where two people are trapped together for an extended period of time, they can strike up an interesting conversation to while away the time.  You know, discuss a little philosophy, become eternal friends so years later, over a bottle of whiskey, they can share memories of that strange little adventure.  But, no, I have to get stuck with the worst conversationalist in the entire _universe_!"

            "Doctor," Spock halted his rant with a quiet interjection, "I am not enjoying this predicament any more than you are."

            McCoy paused.  "Sure."  Then he shrugged.  "Well, who can blame you?  You're content to sit here and think your way out of this box, and I just don't have the patience.  So, go ahead…think."

            "Thank you, Doctor."

            "I'll be right here.  If you need any, I don't know, input.  Or anything."

            "I understand," Spock said.

            "Yeah."  McCoy settled down for what would probably amount to a long wait.

*   *   *

             Perhaps some of you may be interested in what could be happening on the Enterprise while our valiant heroes are _trapped!_ in the cave.  It is precisely this:

            "Have you found them yet, Chekov?" Kirk asked, frustrated.

            "No, sir, steel looking," Chekov said, from his hunched-over position at the science station.

            "Dammit."  Kirk pounded his fist on the arm of the captain's chair, hopefully not accidentally activating the ship's self-destruct feature or anything.  "Keep looking," he ordered.

            "Aye, Keptin," Chekov replied, and kept looking.

            Suddenly, the intercom came to life.  "Scott to Bridge.  You called, Captain?"

            Kirk stared at the comm.  "What?"  Realization set in.  "Oh, sorry, Scotty, my mistake.  Go back to work.  Those warp engines still on line?"

            "Aye, captain, there's no problem with them today.  You've really got to stop hitting the intercom button, sir.  You're disrupting my lunch."  Scott keyed off.

            "Lunch," Kirk said darkly.  "He's worried about lunch when my best officers are down there, somewhere.  Alone, or else being tortured.  Possibly both."  He glanced up as his other officers looked at him with slightly hurt expressions on their faces.  "Oh, go back to work," he said, and resumed his anxious stalking around the bridge.

            At least he was getting exercise.  McCoy would be happy to hear that.

Well, still no real sappy part.  It'll work its way in eventually, but our heroes have been very resistant to sap.  Whenever it starts to move in that direction, they go off on a tangent and hope I forget about it.  But I haven't forgotten…moohahahahaha!


	4. Escapar!

Okay, so my semester isn't quite over yet, but I need to keep my hand in this, or it'll just drift away.  Of course, the fact that I have to write a paper that I really don't want to write has nothing to do with this... 

Well, for some reason, I didn't get as much response from chapter 3, which leads me to believe it sucked as much as Keridwen implied it did.  Basically, the point is that it's dragging out, getting dull, which is true.  I justify the length of the dull section, however, by stating that without the important conversational revelations, the subsequent action scenes would be less startling and exciting.  But then, that's probably just b.s.  I'm much better at dialogue than action, and this episode might determine the truth of that.   So, to quote an unnamed character from a random episode of "The Simpsons" (I don't remember which), "Less chat, more splat!"

_Oh, yeah, Tavia, the llama thing.  Glad you were amused, but I really can't take credit.  I probably quoted it from "Llama Trek," or at the very least was inspired by the story in question.  I can't remember.  Did you know, as a side note, that in Welsh, there is an aspirated l sound, pronounced like "hl," which is similar to the "hw" sound in some pronunciations of "whiskey," etc.?  There's your random linguistic nugget of the day.  Hlama!  Hlama!_

And now…

**Chapter 4:  Escapar!**

            McCoy awoke with a start:  he hadn't even realized he'd been asleep.

            He blinked. 

He blinked again.

            "Spock!" he whispered.  "What's going on?"

            Spock shifted slightly beside him.  "If by that you mean to ask what is happening…nothing."

            "But I can _see _you!" McCoy said excitedly.  "Sort of."

            "That is because it's daytime," Spock replied, a dark form just visible in the dim light.  "Apparently a shaft to the outside allows light to enter this chamber."

            "Great!  Is this shaft accessible to us, by any chance?"

            "I doubt it."

            "Oh.  Shoulda guessed.  Then never mind."  McCoy sat up and rubbed his neck which, unfortunately, had settled itself into a disturbingly uncomfortable position.  "Just when I was getting used to living in the dark.  Hell, I even started to _like_ it!" he muttered to himself.

            "You have not expressed any particular affection for this situation," Spock pointed out.  "In fact, if anything, you have been vigorously proclaiming your displeasure at every possible juncture."

            "Just because you don't understand my unique way of expressing my complete _exaltation…_"

Spock turned his head to look at McCoy.  Somehow, McCoy got the feeling that Spock was studying him carefully, that blasted eyebrow raised, although he couldn't for the life of him figure out why that might be.

            "How long was I asleep?" McCoy asked, when Spock didn't say anything.

            "Nearly two and one half hours."

            "Nearly?  What, you don't have it timed down to the second?"

            "I cannot be certain when you actually fell asleep.  I simply started keeping track when you began to snore."

            "I see," McCoy said, in absence of anything more significant to comment.  "You didn't try one of your Vulcan mind melds on me as I slept, did you?"

            "No, Doctor.  That would be unethical."

            "Good."  McCoy decided to ignore the fact that the ethics concern didn't stop Spock before.

            "You spoke my name in your sleep," Spock said quietly, completely out of left field.  That is, if there had been a left field to say something out of.  Come to think of it, left field is actually closer to the action than right in a ball park.  Especially at Fenway in Boston.  Why is the phrase not "out of right field?"  You're right, it sounds funny that way.  Left field it is.

            So, anyway, Spock comes out of left field by saying, "You spoke my name in your sleep."  (He didn't say it twice, I'm just trying to keep the flow of the story right.  Crap.  Did it again.)

            "You spoke my name in your sleep."  Okay, that's overkill.  Sorry.

            "_What_?" McCoy exclaimed, as startled by the third time as he was by the first, which makes sense, since it was really only once.

            "My name," Spock repeated.  (This time he really did.)

            "_Your_ name?  That's impossible."

            "I heard it very distinctly," Spock insisted.

            "Well, I was obviously saying…_locked_, as in 'we're locked in here.'  You see, in my sleep, I'm devising ways for us to escape."

            "And what did you come up with?"

            McCoy blinked.  "We're locked in here."

            Spock didn't say anything.

            "So, have you come up with anything?" McCoy continued casually.

            "Yes," said Spock.  "If you wait a few minutes, someone will likely move the rock.  We should prepare to escape."

            "_What_?  Is this some totally irrational hope of yours, or—"

            "Come," Spock grasped at McCoy's arm to bring him to his feet.

            Then McCoy could hear it himself:  something was moving the rock from the outside.  "Well," McCoy said amiably enough, "I guess it's officially hit the fan now, hasn't it?"

            Despite himself, Spock had to pause.  "What do you mean by 'hit the fan,' Doctor?"

            "Never mind, Spock, we've got to get out of here.  Now, how are we going to do it?"

            "That depends on several factors, which I will not be able to ascertain until the rock is moved and we know whether the creature has returned."

            "Okay, you've just said nothing, Spock.  What are we going to _do_?  Run out as soon as there's enough space?  Wait and see if it invites us to breakfast?"

            "I believe we should use caution in any respect," Spock said, more to himself than to McCoy, as McCoy was also holding a conversation with himself.

            "…Of course, if it invited us to breakfast, would that mean breakfast _for_ us, or that we _are_ breakfast for _it_?" McCoy continued mumbling.

            "Doctor," Spock interrupted.  "On my signal, follow me out through the opening."

            McCoy looked up.  "Okey doke."  The rock had edged out from the wall, leaving a hole about a foot wide.  Startlingly intense light shined directly into the cave, blinding McCoy.  He clamped his eyes shut, cursing the sun of this planet, whatever its name was, for being so blasted _bright_.

            Spock and McCoy could hear the Large Thing rumbling just outside the cave.

            "You know, a thought just occurred to me," McCoy whispered as close to Spock's left ear as he could reach, considering their height difference and the fact that McCoy could no longer see him, "how will I know when you signal me?"

            Spock didn't get a chance to answer.  The Large Thing had moved the rock away from the chamber opening and waited just outside, ready to enter.  It smelled like burning flesh and decay and blood and all sorts of unattractive odors that McCoy found himself all too familiar with.  Not always mixed together, though.  Although he squinted furiously at the Thing, McCoy couldn't see it any better than he had the night before.

            The two were barely hidden in a recess just to the left of the opening.  If the Large Thing had good eyes (or similar sensory organs), it couldn't possibly miss them.    

Could it?

            The Large Thing entered.  

            It crept forward.

Slowly.

McCoy thought he'd probably collapse from the tension of keeping still for so long.  He kept every single muscle tightly clenched, willing himself to maintain absolute control over every aspect of his body.  He did a pretty decent job at it, too.  Almost like a Vulcan.  Spock would be proud.  That is, if he were the type to feel pride.

            The Large Thing passed within inches of Spock and McCoy.  They could hear grumbling from somewhere deep inside the Thing.  Was it still hungry?

            It didn't stop.  Slowly, slowly, until McCoy was ready to give up and turn himself in, resign himself to whatever horrible fate the Large Thing had in store, because for God's sake, it couldn't possibly be any worse than _this_!  But it passed by without even a hesitation.

            It probably was headed for its stash of decaying corpses, but Spock didn't hang around long enough to find out.  He yanked on McCoy's sleeve to get his attention, and bolted out the cave opening.  McCoy just barely held back a startled yelp, and tenderly jogged after.

            They didn't stop running until they reached a stand of trees a good fifty meters distant.  Then Spock stopped behind a tree, McCoy just after him.  McCoy leaned against a tree, gasping for breath in fear and exhaustion from the sudden activity.

            "Nothing…like a morning jog," he commented wryly between deep breaths.

            Spock, who acted as if nothing of particular note had occurred in the past several minutes, looked back toward the cave.  "It appears we have made our escape."

            "That would probably be an accurate assessment," McCoy replied.  "Now, that was remarkably easy, wasn't it?"

            "I'm afraid you're correct, Doctor."

            "Afraid?"

            "Which leads me to believe that we are at risk from other dangers," Spock concluded.

            "As long as it isn't Large and hideous, I think I can handle it."

            "How are you holding up?" Spock turned to McCoy.

            McCoy glanced up at him.  "I'm doing lovely, how about you?"

            Spock paused in a moment of impatience.  "I meant your injuries.  Will they impede your mobility?"

            McCoy looked up at the trees looming over their heads.  "Well, as long as we don't have to be climbing any trees or anything, I should be fine."

            Spock pulled the scanner out of his pocket and turned it on.

            "Oh, you still have that, do you?" McCoy asked, moderately surprised.

            "Your condition has not worsened, at least," Spock said after staring at the device for a few seconds.

            "You won't be getting rid of me that soon."

            Spock returned the scanner to his pocket.  "I believe our next course of action is to try to find familiar territory.  That will, perhaps, bring us into contact with the ship.  They should be able to locate us now or, barring that, we may find some of our lost equipment."

            McCoy raised his hands in an inviting gesture.  "Lead the way, _mon capitan_."

            Spock looked at him strangely for a moment.  Then he turned and set off into the trees, the doctor on his heels.

            They hiked through ever-thickening trees for a good half hour before McCoy even thought to complain.  He was happy enough being outside that dank, disgusting cave that if he'd had to go to a logic convention of Vulcans, in his dress uniform, no less, he'd have done so with enthusiasm.  Without openly expressing it, of course.

            Once that half hour was up, however, McCoy realized he was out of character.

            "Spock!" he called, as he was gradually falling behind the Vulcan's faster pace.  "Are you trying to kill me, or what?"

            Spock stopped and watched McCoy make a show out of trudging forward to meet him.

            "I swear, my life is more at risk from you than that creature back there," he grumbled as he reached Spock.

            "Do you need a rest, Doctor?"

            "I think we should wait a minute and get our story straight."

            Spock looked at him.  "How do you mean?"

            "Well, first of all, do you have _any_ idea where you're going?"

            Spock blinked.  "This way," he pointed.

            "Oh, _that's_ comforting.  You do realize you're not Jim, right?"

            Spock hesitated.  "Yes, I am aware of that fact, though I do not currently understand the reluctance of that statement," he said carefully.

            McCoy narrowed his eyes.  "You seem to be picking up his particularly irritating habit of enacting major plans without disclosing the details of that plan to his crew."

            "I have already told you my plan.  You agreed with it at the time."

            "Well, I've decided that it's not so good after all."

            "It is the only option available to us."

            McCoy gestured around them widely.  "Look at this.  Does any of it look familiar?  How long do you expect us to wander around out here searching for an area that's exactly the same as the rest of it?"

            Spock didn't flinch.  "We beamed down into a clearing."

            McCoy rolled his eyes.  "Great.  So all we have to do is find a clearing.  Shouldn't be _too_ difficult, in this thick mass of trees!"

            "There is a clearing directly ahead," Spock said calmly.

            "What?" McCoy looked up from his rant, surprised.  Spock had already started walking forward again.  McCoy pushed after him, gingerly stepping over a broken tree branch blocking his path.

            They stepped out into the clearing, pausing to welcome in the warm, calming sunlight.  From its position in the sky, McCoy judged it to be just after noon.  Spock probably had the time down to the second, taking into account the latitude of their position and the season.

            Spock surveyed the perimeter of the clearing silently.

            "Look familiar?" McCoy asked.

            "I do not believe so."

            "Too bad.  Maybe they'll pick up our biosigns, at least."  Despite the bad news, McCoy was smiling.  "You know, if it weren't for that Large Thing, and the fact that we were attacked and whisked away to certain death, this would be a pretty nice place."

            "Perhaps.  I fear that we may encounter some unpleasant weather in the near future, however."

            McCoy looked up at the sky.  "Well, I'm a doctor, not a meteorologist, but it looks fine to me.  The sky's as…purple…as anything."

            Spock pointed toward the distant horizon to the pair's right.  "That formation may be a storm headed in our direction."

            McCoy squinted at it.  "That li'l thing?" he drawled.  "We'll just have to find some shelter, then, or get rescued."

            "Our rescue may be more immediately necessary," Spock commented with a foreboding tone.

            "Huh?"  McCoy tore his gaze from the sky and started.  Across the clearing, not much more than twenty meters away, stood what he could only assume was the Large Thing.

            "Where the devil'd that come from?" McCoy blurted.

            "The trees," Spock said quietly.

            The three figures stood where they were, staring at each other.  Actually, we can only assume the Large Thing was staring, as opposed to sunbathing some other innocent activity.  Which, of course, is possible.  Boring, but possible.

            Now, I really don't want to describe the Large Thing, because it's disgusting and abhorrent, and a few other adjectives that mean roughly the same thing, and creepy and scary and unlike anything you've ever seen—or would ever _want_ to see.  However, for the sake of the story, I suppose I'll have to describe it, at least to some degree.  I will insist that you use your imagination to fill in some of the hideous details, just to keep your brain working.  Try to give yourselves nightmares.  Because McCoy will be having them for quite some time.  Maybe Spock, too.  Do Vulcans dream?  (of electric sheep)

            So, here's what the Large Thing looked like:  You know how television shows and the media always portray aliens as largely human-looking, with a few quirky sidenote features that are "alien" but not really freakishly repulsive?  That's not what the Large Thing was like at all.

            First off, imagine a plethora of scaly, hairy, multi-colored appendages, placed at totally random points on an enormous barrel-shaped mass, serving no apparent function.  The largest of these appendages, and what McCoy decided to assume was the head, emerged from a mucousy pool in the approximate center of the side facing Spock and McCoy.  Nasty-looking antennae stuck out from the "head" at odd angles.  At present, these were the only parts of the Large Thing moving.

            Well, it certainly wouldn't be winning any beauty contests, this Thing.  Not that McCoy was really up for nominating it, anyway.

            "What do you think?" McCoy murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

            "I think we should leave as expediently as possible."

            "_Can_ we?"

            "We may have an advantage in speed.  The creature did not appear to have the ability to move very quickly."

            "Yeah, I don't see any legs on that Thing, either.  Or anything it could _use_ for legs, anyway."

            "Then shall we?"  Spock took a step backwar, catiously.

            "Sounds like a plan," McCoy replied, following his lead.

            The Large Thing edged forward like a slug.  A giant, rock-hard, carnivorous, frightening-looking slug.

            McCoy moved a little faster.  "Why don't we try taking advantage of that speed of ours now?"  He turned his back on the Thing to run.

            That was his first mistake.  He managed to completely miss what happened in the next five seconds.

            "McCoy!" came Spock's strangled cry from a few meters to McCoy's right.  He looked over, startled.

            Spock looked remarkably calm, considering the Large Thing (which McCoy realized he still hadn't thought up a proper name for) was on top of him, about to separate his head from the rest of his body with what turned out to be—not antennae—but enormous, sharp pincers.

            McCoy flashed a glance back to the last known position of the Large Thing, which was now empty, confused and suddenly much more intimidated than he had been six seconds ago.  Which was actually saying quite a bit.

            Spock was barely holding the Large Thing's head back.  McCoy could already see a trace of green blood on Spock's neck where the pincer must have grazed.

            McCoy hesitated just a split second longer before lunging forward.

*   *   *

            "Keptin!" Chekov cried, "I haf them!"

            Kirk's head snapped up with sudden alertness.  "Spock and Bones?"

            "Yes, sir."

            He leaped up from the captain's chair and darted over to the science station, peering over Chekov's shoulder.

            "Do you have a lock on them?"

            "Yes.  There is another lifeform down there."

            "Transmit the coordinates to the transporter room."  Kirk slammed his hand excitedly on the intercom button.  "Scotty!  Get those coordinates and transmit our men up NOW!"

            Scott was a bit slow in responding.  "I'm sorry, Captain.  I cannae do that right now."

            "_WHAT_?"  Kirk was furious.

            "I don't know what the problem is.  There could be some kind of interference in the signal, but these transporters won't be beaming anyone around for several hours, at least."

            Kirk's fury faded as quickly as it arose, replaced by a quiet sadness.  With a heavy resignation to his words, he replied, "Stay on it, Scotty."  He keyed off.

            The bridge was silent for several long moments.  Well, as quiet as the bridge of a starship gets.

            "Oh, that Klingon warbird's a little closer, Captain," Sulu said casually.  "I think they've spotted us."

            Kirk stared at the viewscreen.  "Okay," he said quietly.

            Nobody said anything else for a while.

_Postscript:  Half of you are probably wondering why my title is in Spanish.  The other half either didn't notice or don't care.  Well, I'm gonna explain, anyway.  For some reason recently, I've been listening incessantly to Enrique Iglesias.  _Escape_, it's a pretty good album.  Which, for me, is odd, because I don't normally listen to that sort of thing.  Exactly what "that sort of thing" is defined as, I can't tell you.  Pop music, maybe?  Latin?  I dunno.  But, yeah.  That's the driving force behind this chapter.  The title, anyway._

_I actually hadn't planned on this going on as long as it had.  Maybe I should end it now, just so it doesn't go on forever.  _You _know.  Wouldn't that be a good idea?_

_Oh, yes, of course I love reviews, seeing as I'm attention-starved and all.  I'll even gladly accept flames.  It gets mighty cold in Upstate NY.  Well, it gets cold just about anywhere, but since this is where _I _live, I mention it.  I nearly froze my face off last week.  And you shoulda _seen_ the weather we got yesterday.  I don't even _know _the name for it.  Sleet?  Freezing rain?  It was yicky.  So flames are fine.  But don't just give me something dull like "You suck," because that lacks in creativity.  Give me something that will make me laugh _after_ I cry.  Something like, "This is a repulsively pornographic pile of festering mess.  Of suck."  But not that _exactly_, cause I just _gave_ you that one._

_Man, have you ever heard of Mark Dignam?  Irish singer.  He's fantastic.  I've only heard two of his songs now (listening to one right now), but that clinches it for me.  Must seek out more of his music…  _


	5. Trivial Pursuit

_A/N:  First things first, I need to thank you all for hanging in there, waiting for this chapter (assuming you're still out there…).  I really didn't intend to leave this for so long, but here's an attempt at a (fairly) quick explanation:  flash back to last year (yeah, I hate when people say that, too).  First there was the semester burn-out, which tied in with holiday burn-out, so I didn't do anything except, I don't know, watch TV for about a week.  Along with whatever goes with the holidays.  Then there was the snow.  Actually, that doesn't really have anything to do with my writing, so never mind.  But then, there was the disillusionment.  I started the chapter (oh, and I also edited the first 4, which I will change by the next chapter), decided it sucked, threw the whole thing under my bed, returned a week later, wasn't quite as disappointed with it, and then left that part largely unchanged.  Did that make sense?  So, this chapter's been finished for nearly two weeks or so.  What's the delay?  Computers.  I have a computer.  I intended to set it up over my break, but for reasons unknown to me, I did not.  So, I had no way to type this up.  Now I do.  End of story, I guess._

_I mentioned "writer's block" somewhere, and just to set the record straight, I really didn't have writer's block.  In the past several months, I've never had a "block" per se.  My lack of writing is based more on "I don't feel like writing right now, even though I have something to write."  I would call my break more of a "Writer's Deluge," in the sense that I worked on a lot of stuff, but very little of it is complete.  I think before I can work on much of it, I need to post more stuff.  So, here we go._

_I was going to give a big sap warning, because this would have been The Sap Chapter.  It is, to some degree, but not quite in the way I originally planned.  Suffice it to say, it's sap of a different nature.  I had a good sap warning, too.  Would you like to hear it?  Good.  It went something like this:_

_[read in sideshow announcer's voice]  Get your buckets under the tree taps, folks!  This chapter's guaranteed sappier than your average Maple syrup!_

_Maybe I should quit while I'm ahead._

_Well, this chapter's a bit longer than usual, but I hope it's worth the length (and the wait).  Come to think of it, this intro is way too long.  You can skip right to the story if you like._

_It's good to be back._

Chapter 5:  Trivial Pursuit

When last we left our heroes, Spock was about to be decapitated and McCoy was about to do something (presumably) heroic…

            McCoy charged forward with a roar, slamming full-force into the Large Thing.  He succeeded only in knocking himself completely off-balance.  With an almost casual flick of one fat, hairy appendage, the Large Thing pushed McCoy to the ground.  He collapsed painfully a couple meters away from Spock, realizing a bit too late that lunging in without a plan has its consequences.

            "Okay," McCoy grunted lifting his face from the dirt, "that didn't quite work out the way I planned."

            "Thank…you, Doctor," Spock choked.

            McCoy's failed attack wasn't entirely in vain, however.  The Large Thing hesitated just long enough for Spock to squirm his neck out from under direct contact with the sharp pincers.  McCoy rolled to his feet a short distance away and grabbed a tree branch, conveniently located within arm's reach.  He swung wildly, as hard as he could.  It smashed into the main mass of the Large Thing, which then let out an ear-piercing, howling bellow.

            McCoy backed off and cringed, trying to protect his ears from the shattering noise, while also waving the branch at the Large Thing threateningly.  The Large Thing ignored him, already in too much pain to bother with further threats.  All of its appendages stiffened and stood on end in what might have been a comical manner if the situation were not so dire.  The Large Thing stumbled around on its bulbousy base, finally forgetting Spock.

            Spock wriggled away from the Large Thing, backpedaling on all fours until he rammed headfirst into a tree.  McCoy almost choked laughing, despite all the other things he was trying to do at the same time, most notably drive off the Large Thing.

            He hurried over to Spock's side, holding the stick out in front of him.  The Large Thing limped its way into the trees and disappeared.  McCoy wasn't convinced of their safety, but he'd take what he could get.

            "Are you all right?" McCoy asked, peering down at Spock, who was still on his back.

            Spock looked up with some surprise and groggy confusion.  Blood trickled freely from the wound in his neck, soaking into the front of his uniform shirt.  "Yes, Doctor," he slurred.

            McCoy studied him with concern, but kept his face calm.  "Come on, we'd better get out of here before that Thing comes back."

            Spock just stared up at him blankly for a few seconds.  McCoy tried not to wince.  He held out a hand for Spock to pull himself up with.  Slowly, Spock straightened himself to his full height, swaying slightly with dizziness.

            "What's the matter, Spock?" McCoy asked.  He snapped his fingers in front of Spock's face, checking his reflexes.  Spock flinched and pulled his head back.  "That creature must have some kind of stunning venom," McCoy said thoughtfully, more to himself than Spock.

            Spock blinked several times in succession, trying to regain his bearings.  "S…scanner," he murmured.  His hand fumbled clumsily to his pants pocket.

            McCoy looked down.  "Okay, I'll let _you_ get the scanner."

            Spock finally pulled the scanner out, and McCoy grabbed it and flicked it on.

            "Mm-hm," he commented to himself, and turned off the scanner, shoving it into his own pocket.  "Let's go, Spock.  You're just going to have to deal with that for a few minutes."

            McCoy took hold of Spock's arm and firmly, but with a certain gentleness, guided him to the trees.  Spock staggered along, sometimes leaning heavily against McCoy, but generally managing to hold his own.  They continued this way for perhaps ten minutes, with McCoy peering around them worriedly, trying to pick out the Large Thing among the intimidating shadows.

            "Sometimes I wonder why the devil I joined Starfleet, anyway," McCoy grumbled to himself.

            Spock, under the depressive effects of the Large Thing's venom, rose to the bait.  "Why _did _you join Starfleet?"

            "Don't ask," McCoy muttered, guiding Spock over a bumpy area.

            "I believe it is too late.  I have already asked."

            McCoy scowled.  "Well, don't ask again."

            "If you answer my question, I won't have to," Spock replied practically.

            "I don't _want_ to answer your question, that's the point."  McCoy was losing his temper.  He clutched Spock's arm more tightly.

            Spock carefully loosened the doctor's grip with his free hand.  "Very well."

            They walked in silence for a short time.  McCoy craned his neck around nervously at every little crackling sound.

            Then McCoy sighed.  "It's a long story, that's all."

            Spock didn't answer for a few seconds.  "What is a long story?"

            "Why I joined Starfleet."

            "I thought you didn't want to talk about that."

            McCoy blinked.  "I didn't, yeah."

            Spock waited.

            McCoy continued, "There were just a lot of things going on in my life that I needed to escape, and I guess Starfleet seemed like a good choice at the time."

            Spock listened without comment.

            McCoy was talking as if Spock weren't even there.  "I mean, my marriage was in shambles, and—"  He broke off and suddenly stopped short, and to catch Spock to prevent him from hurtling forward.

            McCoy cocked his head to the side.  He scowled, thinking, then nodded, as if confirming something to himself.  Spock stood beside him, blinking furiously, trying to keep himself awake and alert.  McCoy started walking again, but in a different direction, dragging Spock along beside him.

            The pair soon arrived at a trickling stream.  Water flowed smoothly at their feet, glittering in the sparkling glints of sunlight through the trees.  McCoy bent down and ran a hand through the water.  Satisfied, he guided Spock to sit down against a tree trunk.  Spock did so without protest.  He had some difficulty keeping his balance, but McCoy helped him.

            McCoy straightened and glanced down at his shirt.  "All right, Spock, we're going to have to clean that wound out.  I wish I could give you something to fix this, but we're just going to have to wing it, and hope you haven't absorbed too much."  Almost as an afterthought, he murmured, "And hope it's not a fatal venom."

            McCoy examined his shirt more carefully.  Most of it was dirty; parts were bloody (red, his own); and small rips were scattered over the front.  He flipped over the bottom edge to check the inside surface, which was comparatively quite clean.  Starting at the hem on his left side, McCoy tore a large strip from the lower part of his uniform shirt, across the front, and around the back.

            "What are you doing?" Spock asked blearily, watching him with hooded eyes.

            McCoy glanced up as he tore the strip into two smaller pieces.  "What do you think I'm doing?  Taking care of that little paper cut of yours."

            "With your shirt?"

            McCoy favored Spock with an exasperated look as he soaked of the strips in the stream.  "No, I'm just doing this part for fun."

            "You ripped your shirt," Spock pointed out dazedly.

            "No big loss," the doctor replied glibly.  "It was already ripped.  Lift your chin."  McCoy kneeled over Spock, holding the dripping cloth in one hand.  Spock raised his chin, allowing McCoy to wipe the blood off his neck.

            McCoy cleansed the wound as thoroughly as possible, easing off slightly when Spock flinched in pain.  "You're growing quite a beard, there, Spock.  That can't be regulation," he commented.  "Any better?"

            Spock's eyes already looked a little clearer, his voice less muddled.  "Yes."

            "Good.  I'll wrap it up so it won't bleed as much."  He took the dry strip of his uniform shirt and pulled it tightly around Spock's neck like a bandana.  "Well, you look like you're ready to rob a freight train, but it'll have to do until we get ahold of some gauze."

            "Where will you find gauze?"  Spock was starting to sound more like himself.

            McCoy blinked at him.  "Maybe there's a drugstore nearby."

            Spock looked at McCoy with the expression he saved for his conversations with McCoy.  He put a hand up to his throat, feeling the makeshift bandage tentatively.  McCoy forcefully pulled his hand away.

            "Don't play around with it," he commanded in his best stern doctor tone.  "You wanna open it up and bleed all over?  I only have so much shirt."

            "We should keep moving," Spock said in response.

            "As long as you can handle it."

            "I'm fine," Spock insisted quietly.

            "Sure you are," McCoy said knowingly.  He watched Spock struggle to his feet while steadfastly refusing any assistance.  McCoy held the tree branch out for Spock to support himself.  "I think you'll need this."  Spock shook his head.  "You're a stubborn man, Spock."

            Spock fixed his gaze on McCoy, just slightly raising an eyebrow.

            McCoy smiled.  "Okay.  So this pot's doing a little kettle-calling."  He straightened out of his crouch and looked around.  His hands brushed at his shirt, trying to smooth it out.  The bottom didn't quite reach the waistline of his pants, leaving a gaping area of bare skin.  Had anyone other than Spock been there, McCoy would have been the butt of many jokes and considerable embarrassment.  Even still, Spock looked at him with an almost-amused glint in his eyes.

            McCoy favored him with a steely glare, just daring Spock to crack a joke.  "Something to say, Spock?"

            Spock turned aside.  "No, Doctor."

            McCoy sighed in mock exasperation.  "The sacrifices we physicians make for our patients.  And do we get any thanks?"  McCoy shook his head to himself.  "You have any preference for direction?"

            Spock looked around.  "I don't think it really matters."  
            McCoy paused and eye Spock with some concern.  "Now I _know_ you're not back to normal yet."  Spock looked back innocently.  "Let's go this way, then.  The path looks a little easier."

            "Agreed."

            McCoy led the way down the path, looking back occasionally to track Spock's progress.  Spock seemed to scowl back at him when he noticed the careful attention.  "Doctor," he began, almost warningly, "why are you staring at me?"

            "What?"  
            "You don't need to watch me constantly."

            "I'm _not_ watching you constantly."

            "In the past five minutes, you have looked back at me three times," Spock noted.

            "Well, that's not _con_stantly, is it?" McCoy replied.  "I'm just making sure you're still keeping up—"

            McCoy broke off as he tripped over a root sticking up from the ground and sprawled into a fibrous net stretched across the path between two trees.  He let out a surprised cry, arms flailing wildly, and collapsed headfirst, entangling himself immediately in the net.

            Spock picked up the tree branch McCoy had just dropped and whacked at the edges of the net, causing McCoy to tumble to the ground, still caught in the wiry strands.  "Strange," Spock commented quietly, fingering a strand of the net.

            "Spock!" came McCoy's muffled and frustrated cry from somewhere within the pile on the ground.  "I could use a hand here!"

            Spock looked down, and bent over to aid McCoy.  After a few minutes struggling with the net, which turned out to be very sticky, the both escaped with only a few scratches and bruises.  Spock's were mostly caused by McCoy's frantic kicking when he realized he couldn't breathe, and tried to alert Spock to that fact.  If Spock were not a Vulcan, he might have been tempted to kick McCoy back a few times.

            McCoy sat on the ground, panting.  Spock backed a few feet away, rubbing his left arm, where McCoy had landed a particularly solid kick.

            "Who the hell stuck a giant fishing net in the middle of our path?"  Obviously, that angry comment came from McCoy, not Spock.

            Spock examined a clump of the netting that had stuck together in McCoy's fight to escape.  "Fascinating."

            "What the hell is so fascinating about a chunk of netting?"

            Spock held it out for McCoy to examine.  He shied away, unwilling to even touch it again.  "I imagine if you were to taste it, you would recognize it."

            McCoy stared at him.  "Taste it?"

            "This netting has the same consistency as the rope my hands were tied with in the cave."

            "What?"  McCoy hesitantly reached out and grabbed a clump off the ground.  He sniffed it, but didn't open his mouth.  "Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle."

            "A…what, Doctor?"

            "Never mind.  What does this mean?"

            "Someone has set a trap."

            "For us?"

            Spock looked around.  "That would be the logical assumption."

            "Now, wait a minute.  How can someone think this thing," McCoy gestured at the tangled, ripped netting surrounding him, "could actually trap us?  It doesn't make sense!"  
            "It _did_ trap you."

            "Only because I was looking back at you!"  
            "Which I told you not to do," Spock finished pointedly.

            "Fine!  I won't!"

            Spock held up a hand and turned his head to one side.  McCoy scrambled to his feet as quietly as he could.  Somewhere in the trees, Something was rustling around.

            Spock pointed into the brush, and they scurried off.  McCoy grimaced at the loud crackling noised he made as he crashed through dried twigs, but there was nothing to be done for it.  It was some solace to him that Spock also crackled as he ran, albeit to a lesser degree.

            They ran through the forest for some time before Spock halted McCoy with a touch to the arm.

            "Do you think it's gone?" McCoy mouthed.

            Spock frowned, or what he called a frown.  "What did you say?"

            "Is it gone, do you think?" McCoy whispered.

            "I cannot be certain, but I believe so.  I don't think it can keep up with us for long periods in the thick tree cover."

            McCoy scowled.  "Yeah, now that you mention that…you said before that Thing couldn't move very fast, which obviously wasn't true."

            Spock paused.  "Yes.  That was apparent in the fact that the creature had somehow caught up to us in the clearing."

            "That's not what you said at the time," McCoy accused.  "Why didn't this thought occur to you before?"

            "I must have been distracted by your constant rambling," Spock said with a tinge of annoyance.

"Distracted by _me_!" McCoy scoffed.  "Some excuse!"

            Spock, without consciously thinking about it, reached up to adjust the cloth strip o his neck.

            "Spock," McCoy warned.  "Leave it alone."  Spock caught himself, almost guiltily, and drew his hand away.

            "So," McCoy continued, in a more conversational tone, "we were discussing that hellish netting."

            "Yes," Spock replied simply.

            "Here's a thought:  you were tied up when we were in the cave, remember?"

            Spock gave him a look.  "That was not easy to forget."

            "Yeah," McCoy nodded in agreement.  "So…how?  There has to be someone else out here tracking us, because _you_ were tied us.  How's that for logic?"

            Spock nodded slightly.  "That would mean we are potentially in danger from another, still unexplained entity."

            "Entity," McCoy frowned.  "Why do you have to use the word 'entity?'  I hate that word—'_entity_!'"

            "How would you prefer I refer to it?"

            "Well, I've been calling our creature the Large Thing," McCoy stated proudly.

            "Somewhat lacking in creativity," Spock commented.

            McCoy didn't answer for a minute.

            "So, we're kind of back to square one," he said at last."

            Spock said nothing, studying the area around them.

            McCoy watched Spock for a moment.  "What we have here is a logistical problem."  As Spock glanced over, he added, "Not _log_ical.  That's logic with a 'sti' in the middle."

            Spock raised a questioning eyebrow.

            "Our goal so far has been to contact the ship.  Now, we should be a little more careful about being noticed and recaptured.  But, if anything, we're more lost now than we've ever been."

            "Actually," Spock interjected, maddeningly calm, "these features seem vaguely familiar.  I believe it matches a part of the aerial map I consulted before we beamed down.  We should reach our original landing zone if we head at approximate bearing 42 mark 7."  He pointed.

            McCoy snapped his eyes back into focus.  "Great.  I've got my own personal, living, breathing Global Positioning System here," he said to a nearby tree trunk.  "Well, let's go, then.  Can you handle taking the lead?"  
            "I think that would be best.  I will try to avoid falling into any nets."

            McCoy sneered.  "Funny, Spock.  I didn't know you were practicing your stand-up routine."

            Spock gave him another strange look, then turned and started hiking on the path he had selected.  McCoy shook his head, gathered his bearings, and followed after.

            They marched on in silence for some time, Spock in complete calmness, McCoy in anxious foreboding.  It was a little too quiet in these woods.  Even normal forest sounds—the creaking of dead branches still attached far above their heads, for example—bothered him.

            "Doctor," Spock ventured, at a point when McCoy was directly behind him.

            "What is it, Spock?" McCoy asked quietly.

            "You were discussing your entrance into Starfleet earlier."

            McCoy stared at the back of Spock's head.  "Yes.  I was.  Earlier," he said stubbornly.

            Spock glanced back over his shoulder.  "I have often wondered if you are entirely at home in Starfleet."

            "Have you?" McCoy remarked faintly.  He wasn't sure he wanted to continue, but didn't feel he had much choice.  "And you've come to some conclusion…?"  
            Spock paused, as if he were still considering the matter.  "Not exactly.  In fact, your recent comments have only served to complicate the matter further."

            "Well, feel free to psychoanalyze me," McCoy retorted sarcastically.

            "Thank you, Doctor," Spock replied, perfectly serious.  If he had not been walking through rugged terrain, he might have steepled his hands together at this point.  "For such an emotional person as yourself, you seem to have few emotional attachments on the _Enterprise_."

            McCoy scowled.  "What?"  
            "For example, you don't spend much time with the crew."

            "What are you talking about?" McCoy said, a bit loudly, "I see them all the time; they're my patients."

            Suddenly, a fist-sized rock flew past their heads, a little too close for comfort.  McCoy dove to the ground, pulling Spock with him.

            "What the hell was that?" McCoy rasped, trying to peer past the dirt in his face to find the source of the missile.

            "A rock," Spock replied, doing much the same thing.

            "Dammit, who's throwing _rocks_ at us?"

            "I don't know," Spock said, with just a trace of vexation.

            "Well…_do_ something!" McCoy whispered frantically.

            Spock stood up and looked around.

            McCoy tugged desperately at his pants leg.  "Not _that_!  What are you _doing_?"

            Spock looked down at McCoy, as if bored.  "Our attacker is gone."

            "How do you _know_?!"

            "I saw the figure moving away into the trees," Spock answered.

            McCoy paused, thinking.  "Oh."  He stood up, cautiously, and brushed himself off.

            "We should be careful.  We are likely being followed."

            "Really?  Where'd you get that idea?" McCoy grumbled sulkily.

            They continued walked, staying a little closer to each other than they'd been before, not as a result of discussion but by an unspoken agreement.  McCoy picked up a hefty tree branch to replace the one he had earlier, which Spock now carried.

            McCoy noticed, with discomfort, that it was gradually getting darker, and colder.

            "Do you spend your leisure time with anyone?" Spock brought up casually, continuing their conversation as if there had been no interruption.

            "What?" McCoy asked, surprised and startled.

            "You said that you spend time with your patients.  Do you also socialize with them off-duty?"  
            McCoy didn't answer for several long seconds.  "That could be a very personal question, Spock."

            Spock looked at him pointedly.  "Is it?" he asked innocently.  McCoy didn't say anything, so he answered his own question.  "You do not," he said conclusively.

            McCoy narrowed his eyes defensively.  "What, do you follow my every movement?  Am I under surveillance?"

            "As first officer, noting the dynamics of crew interactions is part of my duty," Spock explained away smoothly.

            "When's the last time you spent your off-duty time with your _friends_?" McCoy retorted.

            The implied insult rolled off Spock easily.  "_I_ am a Vulcan.  You are not."  In McCoy's silent fuming, he continued, sickeningly matter of fact, "Where are your friends?  Whom would you visit on leave?"  
            "What exactly are you saying?" McCoy asked, increasingly more uncomfortable.

            "I know you better than anyone on the ship, save the captain.  You often emphasize that Jim and I are best friends."  He paused meaningfully.  "Where does that leave you?"

            "I don't know what you're talking about," McCoy said sullenly.  "Of course I have friends."  
            Spock stepped forward to push through a group of low-hanging branches blocking their path.  "Close friends?  Your friendship with the captain is limited somewhat by professional distance."  He held the branch forward several seconds to allow McCoy to follow him through.  "Logically, I believe you could consider me your closest friend on the _Enterprise_."  Spock kept walking, and released the branch.

            McCoy froze in shock, just long enough for Spock's words to register.  "_What_?"  He hurried forward to catch up to Spock.  "You've gotta be—ow!"  The branch slapped him full in the face.  He untangled himself and stomped after Spock.  "You've gotta be kidding me!"

            Spock didn't acknowledge him.

            Frustrated, McCoy chuckled bitterly.  "Really, Spock, do you know how pathetic that sounds—my best friend is a _Vulcan_?!"

            Spock looked back then, with an odd, unreadable expression in his eyes.

            McCoy flinched, suddenly taken aback.  He blinked again, refusing to believe that, for an instant, Spock looked hurt.

            "Nor have you shared details of your past with your colleagues," Spock continued, as if he hadn't just been (or felt) insulted.  "Your marriage, for example.  Or your daughter."

            In a startled fit of anger, McCoy grabbed Spock's arm firmly, yanking the Vulcan to a halt.  "Now, who the hell told you that?" he growled in a low, menacing voice.

            Spock looked at him innocently.  "Your records."

            McCoy glared.  "You've read through my records?"

            "I have read every crew member's records."  
            "And yet you memorized this innocuous little detail of my life," he prodded.

            Spock raised an eyebrow.  "I have a very good memory.  I did not intentionally learn this information to upset you."

            McCoy relaxed his posture suddenly.  "Does Jim know?"

            Spock momentarily looked bemused.  "He has access to your records.  However, he has never mentioned he possesses this knowledge."  
            "Good.  Keep it that way."  He turned aside.

            Spock studied him as he released his grip.  "Why are you trying to hide this?"

            Another flash of anger crossed McCoy's face.  Then he sighed heavily.  "I don't know."

            Spock continued delicately.  "Perhaps you should consider why you don't allow people to get close to you."

            McCoy threw up his arms.  "That's it!  I've had enough!  We're not talking about me anymore!"  He moved on down the trail, leaving Spock to stare after him.  A few seconds later, he followed.

            They moved in silence for some time, until dusk began to overtake them.

            "We should find a place to stop for the night," Spock murmured.

            "Fine," McCoy said blankly.

            From somewhere in the dark, slightly above them, came a high-pitched whirring sound, something like muted phaser fire.  Before either of them could react, McCoy was hit.

            He crumpled to the ground.  [_A/N:  I could stop here, couldn't I?  No, just a little bit more…_]

            Spock rushed to his side, and grasped his forearm, trying to feel a pulse.  McCoy pulled his arm away, a bit sullenly, and held his hand up.  "I'm all right.  It was just a minor shock.  What _was_ that?"

            "Unknown.  I'm not certain if it's still nearby.  It came from the trees," Spock added.

            Then the two of them looked upward.  Even in the quickly blackening evening, they saw the shapes.  And the chattering of some kind of unfamiliar language started.

            Spock counted at least seven of the small figured, hunched over their branches in tight packages, slowly gathering in the lower limbs of the trees along the path.  Yellow-green eyes glittered, and the phaser fire shot from one of the figures again.

            "Watch out!" McCoy cried from his half-sitting, vulnerable position.  He pulled Spock back in time to avoid getting hit.

            "That phaser fire is pretty weak," McCoy murmured grimly to Spock, "but if we get hit by all of them, it won't matter."

            Uneasy, heavy silence.  Then some more rustling, as a few more shapes joined the party.  Chattering.

            "Maybe we were safer in the cave," McCoy commented dryly.

I may have written myself into a corner… 

Oh, by the way, I didn't make McCoy sound too ultra-pathetic or paranoid or antisocial or anything, did I?  That wasn't really my intention. 


	6. Odyssey

_What to say?  Well, it's been awhile.  I'm sorry it's taken so long to finally update this, April Fool's notwithstanding.  Long story short, I guess I've been busy. Want an example?  Have you ever tried to read Nabokov?  In Russian?  It's harder than it sounds, believe me.  Okay, that's an extreme circumstance, I really haven't done that much this semester.  More importantly, I didn't have the right mind-set to sit down and finish this, although the skeleton of this chapter has been in place since January or earlier.  The past couple days I've been grinding down and writing, which has been really, really fun.  Oh, yes, my reader feedback response comes at the end, 'cause it's looong._

Chapter 6:  Odyssey

            McCoy decided to close his eyes to wait for the end.  He could still hear the chattering above him, surrounding him, closing in.  At least the Large Thing gave them a _chance_ at survival, but this…

            "Sorry, Spock," McCoy whispered.  "We tried."

            Spock didn't respond.

            The sky grew ominously dark, as if ringing their final knell of doom.  Another phaser blast stung McCoy on the arm, singeing his skin.  McCoy started with the shock.  Spock grasped his other arm solidly, trying to pull McCoy to his feet.

            Suddenly, a brilliant flash of light illuminated the path, the trees, the squatting figures, in perfect clarity for a split second.  And then one of the figures squealed in pain and tumbled to the ground in front of McCoy and Spock, apparently struck by the lightning.

            McCoy stared, even though he couldn't see anything in the now overwhelming darkness.  Spock tugged his arm more forcefully, as the other creatures chattered fretfully and jumped around in their branches.

            McCoy didn't even have time to think before a deafening rumble of thunder crashed and a thick, heavy downpour of rain started, immediately drenching him.

            "Run!" Spock shouted over the lingering din of the thunder and the screaming of the creatures.

            McCoy didn't have to be told twice.  He scrambled to his feet, trying to find purchase in the loose, quickly dampening soil, and followed Spock down the trail.

            "It appears the rainstorm I noted earlier has caught up to us," Spock yelled, as McCoy fell in beside him.

            "No kidding!" McCoy shouted back, already out of breath from fright.  "Shouldn't we find some kind of shelter or something?"

            "We have little choice at the moment, Doctor."

            The path ahead of them was lit up again by another lightning strike, disturbingly close for comfort.  Time seemed to slow as McCoy hung in the air, just between strides.  And then darkness fell again, and a heart-stopping screech cried out behind him.  _They _were in pursuit.

            "What the hell _were_ those, phaser monkeys?" McCoy demanded.

            Spock's reply, if he gave one, was drowned in the next clash of thunder.

            A memory flashed in McCoy's head:  back on Earth, they always said you could tell how far away a storm was by counting the time between the lightning and the thunder.  One second for every mile.

            This storm was very, very close.

            As McCoy ran along, he thought he felt a stiff, bony hand reaching out for him, grabbing at his heels.  He looked back just as the lightning flashed again, which clearly exhibited one of the creatures racing after him on all fours, clawing at his legs.  Its face was flattened, wide, grotesquely ugly, appearing even more repulsive than McCoy's first glance of them, in the trees, had been.  It seemed to be grinning fiercely.

            McCoy couldn't help but cry out, and was joined by the booming peal of thunder.  And then the ground became too slick, and as he tried to regain his footing and run faster to escape the creature, McCoy slipped, and sprawled into Spock's back, bringing them both to the ground, face-first in the mud.

            McCoy scrambled helplessly with all four limbs, managing only to slide a few inches to either side.  He collapsed back into the muck.

_            It's over,_ a pathetic voice in his head murmured. _ Just give it up._

            Spock's feet, just in front of McCoy, dug into the mud, the thick heels of his boots fighting for firm standing, making loud sucking noises as they pushed into the mud and back.  One of his feet caught McCoy full in the face, and the doctor growled to himself in annoyance.  _My _closest_ friend kicks me in the head right as I'm about to die._  He could even do sarcasm in his mind.

            The creature just behind him squeaked in terror, then suddenly broke off with a protracted gulp.  McCoy chanced a look behind him, and saw nothing but black.  And the lightning struck again, and he could see the Large Thing looming over him, less than a meter from his boots.  The little creature, already less than half the size of McCoy, was dwarfed even more by the Large Thing, especially considering that it was now hanging limply from one of the Large Thing's pincers.  McCoy looked away.

            "When it rains, it pours," McCoy murmured, dripping wet.

            The remaining creatures slithered off into the night at encountering both the rainstorm and the Large Thing, leaving Spock and McCoy to face both alone.  To their surprise, however, the Large Thing barely paid them any mind and slowly shuffled off, its prize in hand (pincer?).

            Spock and McCoy lay sprawled on the path, covered in mud, waiting with quiet anticipation.  After several long, silent seconds, nothing happened.  The Large Thing was gone, fresh prey in tow, and the prey's companions had apparently gone into hiding.  The only thing they now had to cope with was the rain.  And the mud.  And the lightning, which still struck at an alarmingly frequent rate.

            McCoy was content to stay where he was, facedown in the mud, for a very long time, possibly forever.  Except he was wet and dirty and cold and very quickly deciding he'd much rather be in a warm, dry, clean place, preferably with cocoa.

            Spock had long since stopped struggling to get to his feet, now that the danger had gone.  He realized at this point, avoiding any risks of being struck by lightning was more important than moving around.  He also knew the storm would shortly subside and they could continue their search for the landing coordinates.  Despite these positive thoughts, however, Spock may also have been longing for warmth, cleanliness, and cocoa.  Considering that the Vulcan language has no subjunctive mood, though, he probably wasn't.  [_A/N:  Made this up; I know nothing about the Vulcan language.  And neither do you, so you can't complain.  If you do complain, I will laugh at you._]

The storm was moving further away, roughly in the direction Spock and McCoy were headed before.  The thunder was still deafeningly loud, the lightning still too close for comfort, but Spock sat up anyway and nudged McCoy's shoulder with a boot.  

McCoy looked up and nearly jumped out of his skin.  For a moment, he thought the mud-drenched Vulcan could have been one of those phaser monkeys, or some other unknown terror lurking in the woods.

"It's safe to continue, I think," Spock said.  He would have said it quietly, but the storm's noise forced him to shout.

McCoy nodded and went back to struggling to get up.  Now that Spock was more clearheaded, he got to his feet with little difficulty.  Then he helped McCoy to his feet, with great difficulty.  Had they not already been soaked to the skin, bruised, covered in cuts and scrapes, and then sealed with a thick mud coating, they would have been after this latest struggle.  With McCoy cursing and swearing, and Spock becoming very tempted to join him, they succeeded in standing up and continued on their (merry) way.

The storm gradually eased off as it moved away, allowing for some conversation.

"So, how'd you manage to pull that off?" McCoy asked, lightening his spirits.

"Pull what off, Doctor?" Spock asked with a sideward glance.

"Our rescue!  The storm," he gestured around them, even though he doubted Spock could see it, "the Large Thing!"

"I had no part in our fortunate circumstances."

"Yeah…" McCoy trailed off.  "You know, I never heard that storm until it was right on us."

Spock nodded.  "I believe it is the nature of this planet's atmosphere, which alters the acoustics of such phenomena."

"Hm," McCoy replied agreeably.  "Got any insight on the phaser monkeys?"

"I assume by 'phaser monkey' you mean the creatures in the trees," Spock said with a question in his tone.

McCoy rolled his eyes.  "Obviously.  I've already named the Large Thing, haven't I?"

Spock nodded slightly.  "Apparently, these creatures are capable of emitting a low-level phase current, and projecting it by some means.  Perhaps orally."

"You're telling me they can spit phaser blasts?" McCoy asked incredulously.

"It is a possibility."

"Then let's hope they don't catch up to us again."

"That is logical," Spock agreed.

They walked in silence for a few moments.  The storm had passed, leaving a mist of rain and heavy fog within the tree cover.  Spock and McCoy couldn't see more than a few feet in any direction.  Water that had collected in the leaves slowly dripped into pools of mud.

McCoy grabbed Spock's arm.  "Did you hear that?"

"That depends on what you think I heard."

McCoy held his breath for several seconds, straining to listen.  "A noise, like…something out there.  Following us."

A pause.  "No," Spock said.  "I did not."

"Oh, well…"  McCoy didn't continue, because at that moment, Spock stumbled and nearly fell.  McCoy caught his arm and he straightened himself.  Then he immediately leaned over again.

"What's that?" McCoy asked.

Spock, in a rare (and barely perceptible, even to McCoy) display of triumph, held up a tricorder.

"A tricorder!" McCoy cried in amazement.  "You mean, after all this time, we've gotten back to the beginning?"

"It appears so, Doctor.  This must be one of the tricorders we were using before we were abducted.  Perhaps some of our other equipment is nearbly."

They conducted as extensive a search as they could, but found nothing.  Well, they came across some rocks, and moss, and sticks, and a whole lot of mud, but nothing useful.  They decided the communicators must have been washed away in the downpour.

"That's just the sort of damned luck we've been having," McCoy said resignedly.

Spock lifted the tricorder closer to his face to read the display.  "Apparently, we were taken entirely unaware at our abduction.  The tricorder was left on."

McCoy looked concerned.  "Does it still work?"

Spock had a slightly dismissive tone to his voice.  "Tricorders have enough power to last weeks without recharging under normal conditions."  He twisted a dial on the instrument.  "This should prove fascinating.  It has been recording since before our abduction."

McCoy perked up.  "Really?  So we can finally find out what we're up against?"

"Yes."  Spock paused as he accessed the data.  "Curious.  The only life form other than ourselves in this vicinity was the creature you refer to as the 'Large Thing.'"

McCoy stared at Spock, or at least the silhouette he could see in the dark.  "You mean that _Thing_ tackled us all on its own without us noticing?"

"Apparently."  Spock was perplexed as well.

"How did it tie your hands behind your back?"

            Spock crossed his arms.  "Presumably, it is more flexible than imagined."

            McCoy wrinkled his nose in irritation.  "Well, that seems like a bit of a gyp, doesn't it?"

            Spock raised an eyebrow.  "I don't understand."

            McCoy threw his arms in the air.  "We go running around, paranoid that a Romulan is going to leap out from behind the next tree, and all along, it's this stupid thing—what?  A giant spider?"

            Spock considered.  "That may not be far off."

            "What?"  McCoy was confused at the prospect of Spock agreeing with him.

            Spock lifted a hand to his chin thoughtfully.  "In fact, that may be the key."

            "_What_?"

            Spock prepared to lecture.  "We have been assuming that this creature is not sentient, which matches the data we have.  Our computer reports, the tricorder readings, and my telepathic contact with the creature confirm that."

            "Your telepathic contact?" McCoy repeated faintly.

            "When the creature was attacking me, I did not sense a consciousness."

            "So it's not sentient," McCoy concluded.  "Okay.  Tell me something I don't know."

            "We have been assuming, however, that the creature is not intelligent, when in fact it is, even if that intelligence derives from instinct."

            "So you're saying it attacked us because it instinctively believed we were enemies?"

            "Or prey.  Perhaps it believed us to be…phaser monkeys."  Spock said this with such a perfectly straight tone, McCoy couldn't repress a grin.

            "Well, what about the phaser monkeys?  Could they have had a part in this?"

            "No other part than that they are the Large Thing's traditional prey.  I would venture that the net we encountered was intended for those creatures."

            "And the bodies in the cave…" McCoy added with dawning realization.

            "Yes."

            "How 'bout that?  So, now all we have to do is figure out how to return to the ship."

            "Indeed."  Spock walked toward a nearby bush, holding the tricorder in front of him.  "According to this, these fruits appear to be edible, if you are in need of sustenance."

            McCoy took the tricorder from Spock's hands.  "Let me see that."  He studied the readout for a moment, then shook his head.  "No thanks.  I don't trust anything on this godforsaken planet.  If I ate those, they'd probably explode in my stomach."

            Spock didn't eat any, either.

            They continued walking, slowly, trying to discover the clearing to which they had beamed down.

            "You know, we're going on our own little odyssey here, aren't we?" McCoy proposed.

            "Odyssey?"

            "Oh, don't tell me you've never heard of _The Odyssey_?  One of the most famous works of classic Earth literature, and he's never heard of it…"  McCoy, for some reason, took offense at this apparent gap in Spock's education.

            "Explain the premise."

            McCoy paused.  "Well, I don't remember very much of it, to be honest."

            "I see."  Spock was skeptical.

            "What?  I haven't read it for ages!  But you see, we were in a cave, just like Ulysses, and he had to fight off a Cyclops.  In the cave."

            "How did he escape?"

            "I don't know—poked him in the eye or something.  But that's not the point."

            "What _is_ the point?" Spock asked pointedly.

            "The point is, there's a lesson to be learned here.  Stay out of caves.  And, we're going through hell here.  He did that, too."

            "As I recall, that was Hades."

            McCoy scowled.  "I thought you didn't know anything about this."  He eyed Spock suspiciously.  "Well, Hades, whatever.  I think this qualifies."

            After a moment, Spock asked, "Did this Ulysses travel with a companion?"

            "What, you mean like a sidekick?  Who's supposed to be Ulysses here?"

            Spock raised his eyebrows innocently.  "I am merely seeking the parallels between these two situations."

            "Well, I'm sure he didn't have some know-it-all partner leading him into all sorts of danger," McCoy said grumpily.

            "Yes, of course, he must have been quite capable of seeking out adversity by himself," Spock replied with an edge to his tone.

            McCoy stopped short, turning to face Spock.  "So, then, where the hell are we?  We should've reached the beam-in point by now!  You're the brains of this operation—you've done a helluva job using them!  Instead, you've been dragging me halfway across the planet on some excursion—"

            "I'm certain you would have gotten us rescued by now if you had been responsible for our maneuvers," Spock said in the most bitingly sarcastic tone McCoy had ever heard from him.

            "I couldn't have done much worse than what you've done!"

            "We might have saved time finding this area if we had compiled our knowledge early on and considered the problem logically.  If we had agreed on a plan…"

            "What are you saying?  This is somehow _my_ fault?  You fail at your job and you blame me?  Oh, and then," McCoy waved his arms expressively as he spoke, his voice ringing out in the night, bouncing off the trees, echoing throughout the entire forest.  "_Then _you come at me with some ridiculous story about our friendship.  Yeah, hell of a time to have a heart-to-heart, when we're on the run from some monster!"

            Spock hesitated and inhaled slowly.  "Doctor."  He gently took hold of McCoy's arm.

            "Don't touch me!" McCoy snarled, yanking his arm away from Spock's hand.

            Spock pulled back with some distress.

            "If I'm such a close friend of yours," McCoy spat, "why is it you can't even be bothered with calling my name?"

            Spock's brow hardened again, but he didn't answer.

            "Now just think about this:  we could come out of this at each other's throats, or we could come out the best of friends.  Which do you choose, Spock?"  McCoy stared at him intently.

            "I believe you've already made your choice, Doctor."

            McCoy threw up his arms.  "Dammit, Spock!  I'm not going to stand around and argue all night.  I've been following you around this godforsaken planet for devil knows _how_ long, and where the hell has it gotten me?  I think we should split up here.  I guess it didn't work—turns out we couldn't get along and solve this together.  So, I'm going to find my own way."

            Spock looked at McCoy for a moment.  "I have no objections," he said, barely restraining the anger in his voice.

            McCoy glared back, as if preparing for another fight.  "Good.  Here, take this."  He held out the tricorder, his only means of keeping track of his path.  Spock looked down at it, but made no move to take it.  Finally, McCoy withdrew it and stomped away.

            Spock followed his shadow with his eyes long after McCoy had disappeared into the fog.  He sighed faintly, remained standing where he was.

            Several minutes later, McCoy returned, still scowling.  He stopped in front of Spock, looked directly into his face.  His eyes glinted in the dim moonlight.

            Neither of them spoke.

            At last, Spock turned and continued down the path.  McCoy followed silently.

            Within minutes, they reached the clearing.

            Spock found a large tree with a heavy canopy shielding its trunk and root area from much of the moisture.  He turned halfway toward McCoy.  "We can stop here for the rest of the night."  Without waiting for a reply, he found a dry patch and sat, his back against the trunk."

            McCoy said nothing, but followed suit, taking a seat far enough from Spock that he did not face or touch him.  McCoy drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them.

            "I know why we argue," Spock said quietly.

            McCoy's hackles stood on end as he tensed, preparing to defend himself, if necessary.  But Spock's voice was soft, without recrimination.

            "It is, in fact, quite logical," Spock continued.  "Naturally, we have strong personalities that clash in ideological conflicts.  However, the reasons go deeper than that.  We both receive something more from our antagonistic attitudes toward each other."

            McCoy was silent, but listening.

            "In my case," Spock murmured, "I believe I play my part as an experiment in logical reasoning.  Our arguments force me to organize my thoughts constantly and present them convincingly and logically.  In short, you allow me to act more Vulcan."

            McCoy turned his head slightly toward Spock, surprised.

            Now that Spock had made his point, he dropped the subject.  "Perhaps you should sleep while you have the opportunity.  I will keep watch."

            McCoy looked back at Spock, concerned.  "When's the last time you slept?"

            Spock didn't answer.

            McCoy nodded to himself.  "I thought so.  Spock, I'm your doctor.  I order you to get some rest.  Now.  Your health is just as important as mine down here."

            "I do not require sleep as often as you do," Spock protested.

            "Are you kidding?  I've been through med school.  I could go a week without sleep—if I had to—and perform surgery the whole time."

            "I would prefer not to undergo your surgery in such a time," Spock commented dryly.

            "Yeah, well, I'd prefer not to do it, but sometimes you can't help that sort of thing."  He paused.  "Go to sleep, Spock."

            Spock only hesitated a few seconds before relenting.  "Yes, Doctor."  He actually sounded relieved, suggesting the weariness bearing down on him.  Spock rested his chin on his chest and was asleep in mere moments.

            McCoy listened to his relaxed, even breathing with the realization that he had never witnessed Spock sleeping before.  Unconscious, yes, far too many times.  But not sleeping.  It was likely a very private activity, he reasoned.

            "Sometimes I can't tell what's going on in that Vulcan head of yours," McCoy murmured into the darkness.  

Spock did not stir.

"I realize we don't seem to get along.  I don't know why, exactly, myself.  I guess down here we're under a lot of stress, so it's amplified, but…"  McCoy shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease the strain on his ribcage.  "Oh, maybe you're right about me.  But, you know, it's not that I don't like being out here, in space.  I _do_, most of the time.  This particular adventure excluded.  In fact, I really _am_ happy.  It doesn't always sound that way, but it's true."

McCoy stared out into the night.  Water dripped off a branch somewhere above his head, splattering in a pool at his feet.  Other than this trickling, the entire forest was silent.  Nothing moved.  It was almost peaceful.

"Well, I know how I haven't been the most welcome companion on this mission, but I hope you won't think badly of me for it.  Whatever I've said to your face, I don't know how I would've made it without you.  Even though you've gotten me into as many scrapes as we've escaped."  McCoy smiled to himself and looked up at the sky.  "The point is, we did it together.  Take _that_, higher intelligence."

With that statement, McCoy settled back against the trunk and relaxed.

Sometime later, McCoy couldn't tell when exactly, but the edges of the horizon had already pinkened with the coming dawn, a transporter beam took hold of them and pulled them out of the woods.

Sounds like the end, doesn't it?  Well, I've got a bit left, the epilogue.  Tie up a few loose ends, that sort of thing.  That'll come pretty soon.  Next week?  Yeah, I can say that.  This chapter represents the whole idea of what this story was supposed to be about, until that little digression that took, oh, three chapters to get out of my system.  Hope you enjoyed, even if it wasn't overall a very humorous chapter.

_Now, in some pathetic attempt to respond to my readers, I'll comment on some reviews that have filtered in during the past three years or whatever it's been.  If you forgot what you said, or didn't even remember reading this story at all, much less reviewing, don't worry.  I'll make my responses as obscure and incomprehensible as possible so you won't care._

Tavia:  Insane?  Of course I'm insane.  And you don't even know me in person… [maniacal chuckles]  And…Ewoks?  Ewoks?  Hey, I'm a Trekkie, not a Warsie.

Sarah:  Starsky and Hutch…alligator…hmm.  Interesting story possibilities:  Spock vs. Croc!  On a completely different subject…sap.  Maybe you'll find this a bit more sappy, but what do I know?  I just work here.  And, depressed?  Why, no!  If anything, I am actually living a slightly less antisocial life than I have been at various points in my past.  My profs like me, I'm wildly successful (at something, anyway), and I'm going to be…a monkey scientist!  How could I be depressed?  And sick of my readers?  Never!  I _live_ for my readers!  Except when I ignore them for months at a time…

SW:  You "actually enjoyed reading it"?  Well, I'm glad.  I actually enjoyed writing it.  It occurs to me that you can never really tell the tone of certain phrases in reviews.  Does this mean you expected not to enjoy it, or everything else you've read has been crap?  Interesting question.

Kelly:  Well, when you look at it technically, Spock is not saying that they _are_ best friends, only that…well, okay, you have me.  It's just for the sake of story, I guess.  They aren't best friends, true.  Ah, logical debate fails me…

Trekkin17:  You hope you're not disappointed in the story's resolution…well, now why'd you have to go and say something like that?  The pressure you're putting me under!  Now, this means there's a standard I have to live up to!  [shakes head resignedly]

Blue Star Galaxy:  I don't have anything particular to say, so I'll just say thanks for reading!  Hope you like the rest!

Taskemus:  Okay, I didn't expect this to be so long.  Oh, well.  Poetry?  Well, I have written a bad poem or two in my time.  I guess it rubs off on my prose.  I'm glad you're back on ff.n!


	7. Epilogue

                                                **Epilogue**

            "Captain, I've got the transporter working.  We can beam the doctor and Mr. Spock up on your command."

            Scotty's words were the most comforting Kirk had heard in hours, after a night filled with tension.  Kirk took a look around the bridge—finally, everyone was calm again.

            "I'll be right down," Kirk said.

            And he was.  He saw no shame in running down the short corridor from the turbolift to reach the transporter room.  He simply couldn't think what to say when they beamed aboard.

            "Energize," he commanded Scotty as he entered.

            "Aye, Captain.  Can ye imagine how steamed the doctor'll be when he gets back?" Scott said brightly.

            Kirk grinned.  That would be the only reason not to relish this moment.  Even if they hadn't encountered any major trouble, McCoy would be furious at the long wait.  With a passing thought of anxiety, Kirk hoped Spock and McCoy hadn't killed each other.

            The two officers took form on the platform.  They were sitting; that much could be ascertained at this point.  And then the transfer completed.

            Kirk and Scott stared at the muddy blobs on the transporter platform.

            "What the devil is that?" Scott asked.

            As the transporter beam removed them from their environment, it neglected to correct their balance.  While Spock and McCoy had been leaning against the tree trunk on the planet, they now had nothing to support them.  They fell back and collided into each other.

            McCoy groaned at the jolt.  Then he looked around, somewhat bewildered.

            "Bones?  Spock?  Is that you?" Kirk asked, peering at the two.

            "Well, who the devil do you think it is?"  The one on the left was McCoy.  His flinty eyes turned on Kirk.  "Imagine that," he continued.  "He actually beams us back up to the ship.  'Why bother?' I think to ask.  There were a couple times down there when we could've used a beam-up, but he chooses the time when we're not in any immediate danger."

            Kirk wondered who he was talking to.  He certainly wasn't addressing Spock.  Kirk glanced over at Scott, who was equally confused.  "You're…_annoyed_ that we rescued you?"

            McCoy said with dignity, "We were doing perfectly fine before you had to butt in."

            "Well, you're welcome.  You don't _look_ perfectly fine.  In fact, you look horrible.  What did you _do_ down there—wrestle a pig?"

            "Yeah," McCoy said dryly, or as dryly as he could manage, "the pig won."  He tried to get to his feet casually, but was having difficulty.  Wincing, he continued, "We're all right.  Just ran into a bit of…mud."  He wrapped his arm around his ribs protectively.

            Spock stood and tried to sweep clean the front of his uniform with his hands.  He was still covered in soggy mud, crusted dry in some areas, and managed only to soil his hands.  "We discovered, among other things, various fauna on the planet.  Some of them are potentially dangerous."

            "Really," Kirk said dully.

            Spock reached down and gently pulled McCoy to his feet.  Kirk would have expected the doctor to brush off Spock's help, but he made no acknowledgement of it, positive or negative.  In fact, Kirk noticed a certain uneasiness between the two.  Not quite tension, or even unfriendliness, but Kirk observed the way they neatly avoided looking directly at the other.  It was strange, and he wasn't sure he should probe too deeply into their experience.

            Kirk decided, instead, to lighten the tone.  "You look like a couple of…pirates."  Spock was wearing what appeared to be a piece of blue uniform shirt around his neck.  Kirk didn't bother asking why, but noticed the lower portion of McCoy's shirt was missing.  "How could you get into that much trouble in two days?"

            "Two _days_?!" McCoy exclaimed.  "You've gotta be kidding me—it felt like months!"

            "So, I guess Skeptia Ture 6 isn't top on your list of vacation spots, huh, Bones?" Kirk smiled.

            McCoy didn't smile back.

            "What complications did you encounter in our absence?" Spock asked, stepping down from the platform.

            "Well, we had a bit o' trouble with the transporter," Scott answered.  "A molecule scrambler went kaput.  But I got it back in order."

            "We also had a bit of a run-in with some Klingons," Kirk added casually.

            McCoy stared at Kirk.  "You had a 'bit of a run-in' with some Klingons?" he repeated.

            Kirk shrugged.  "Oh, yeah.  They were just passing by and, shall we say, curious about what we were doing around this planet.  Obviously, we were looking for you, but they thought there was something of interest to them down there."

            McCoy continued to stare at Kirk.

            "I assume you successfully defused the situation," Spock said.

            Now that the trouble was over, Kirk could smirk about it.  "They left when they discovered what they were up against."

            "So they weren't trying to capture us?" McCoy asked slowly.

            Kirk snorted.  "Nah.  They weren't around long enough for that."

            "Well, I don't understand this.  A death-battle with Klingons and you act like nothing's happened."  McCoy was bewildered.

            "I'm sure you must have some stories to tell as well," Kirk replied.

            McCoy and Spock exchanged glances.

            "There is very little to tell," Spock said.

            Kirk waited for further explanation, but McCoy and Spock were silent.

            "Okay, then," Kirk said at last.  "I guess we can just be happy it's all over with."

            "Sounds good to me," McCoy replied.

            Nurse Chapel entered the room, followed by two orderlies with a stretcher.

            "What's this?" McCoy asked suspiciously.

            Kirk raised his eyebrows.  "We had no idea what condition you might be in.  I called them up in case you were seriously injured."

            Spock took a step toward the door, dodging the nurse.  "I need to change.  I will meet you shortly on the bridge, Captain."

            "He needs a doctor," McCoy announced, bringing Spock to a halt.

            Kirk eyed them both.  "From the look of it, you both could use a doctor."

            Spock turned around.  "Dr. McCoy is in greater need of medical assistance than I.  He has several cracked ribs, various contusions, and is moderately dehydrated."

            "Don't forget the dislocated wrist," McCoy muttered.  "What I could use more than anything else is a shower.  Several showers."

            "If I have to order you both to Sickbay, I will," Kirk warned.

            Spock and McCoy hesitated.  "Fine," McCoy said.  He approached the door, moving gingerly.

            "Do you need assistance?" Nurse Chapel asked, gesturing to the stretcher.

            "I don't need to be carried to my own Sickbay," McCoy growled.  He stalked out the door with dignity. 

            Kirk held Spock back with a hand after the others had left.  "So, how did you and Bones get along?"

            Spock hesitated an unusually long time before answering.  "We cooperated as well as can be expected."

            Kirk thought he detected a strain in Spock's voice, but decided not to press further.  "Good."

            "I should join the doctor in Sickbay now," Spock said and left.

            Kirk shook his head to himself.  They were too quiet, Spock and McCoy.  Whatever they went through, it certainly must have been abnormal.  He didn't know if that was good or bad, but the captain can't control everything.  He'd have to trust his men.

                                                *   *   *

            McCoy couldn't believe how wonderful his own bed felt after the discomfort of that planet.  Thankfully, the _Enterprise_ had left orbit and he'd never have to see the place again.

            His injuries were not extensive, once the proper medical treatments were available.  His chest was wrapped to cushion his ribs, he was covered in bandages, and he was ordered to his quarters for a full day's rest.

            Somehow, despite his extreme exhaustion, he couldn't sleep.

            The door chimed.  "Come in!" McCoy called.

            The doors slid open, revealing Spock.  He stepped forward, to a point just inside the room, hands behind his back.

            McCoy looked up.  "Oh.  It's you."  He didn't sound disappointed, exactly, nor did he sound pleasantly surprised.  "I thought it would be Jim."

            "I did not bring whiskey."

            "_What_?"

            "Nor is it years later."

            McCoy paused.  "So you _did_ listen to my ramblings down there."

            "I checked Sickbay for you earlier."

            McCoy raised an eyebrow at the implied question.  "They wouldn't let me stay there.  Figured I'd get up and start working again when they looked away."

            Spock didn't smile, not that McCoy would've expected him to.

            "Have you regained your physical vigor?" Spock asked.

            "You mean, do I feel better?  I'd have to, after getting off that horrible planet."

            Neither of them spoke for a moment.

            "Doctor," Spock began, then stopped.  He paused, almost as if he were debating whether to correct himself.

            Before Spock could continue, McCoy held up a hand.  "It's all right, Spock."

            Spock took a step forward, but McCoy continued before he could speak.

            "You know, Spock, when we actually talk to each other, we seem to run into problems."  McCoy sat up, protectively cradling an arm over his stomach.  "We…take offense a bit too easily, perhaps, when none is intended."

            Spock eyed McCoy quietly.  "Perhaps."

            McCoy nodded.  "So, how about we make a deal.  No more conversations about feelings.  Too damn much trouble."

            Spock opened his mouth, paused, re-thought his words.  Finally, he answered, "Agreed."

            McCoy waved a finger at Spock.  "Now, listen, none of this agreement—we should be arguing."

            "On the contrary, Doctor, it is most fitting that we agree on this occasion," Spock replied with a glint in his eyes.

            "That's more like it."

            "Tomorrow we can begin our analysis of the tricorder readings from the planet," Spock said and stepped backward.

            McCoy released an overly exaggerated sigh.  "I don't want to hear _any_thing about that planet ever again!"

            Spock raised an eyebrow.  "I shall meet you in Laboratory 2."  Then he left.

            McCoy lay back, burying his head in his pillow.  He slept with upturned lips.

_Author's Notes:_  Whew!  It's finally over!  I suppose it's been seven or eight months since I started writing this story.  That long?  Wow.  I've never that kind of devotion before.  But then, I had some terrific readers to fuel my literary fire.  In fact, I think this may be the longest story I've ever written and _finished_.  Sixty-ish pages.  Here's to many more.

It's kind of scary, because pages of this story keep showing up all over my room, whenever I'm looking for something else.  Now I can collect it all together and put it somewhere where I'll never have to look at it again.

I've been taking creative writing this semester, which means my writing has improved drastically.  I don't know that it would show up here (right now, anyway) as the process has been more mental.

Oh, by the way, I am now officially a published writer.  In print.  Technically, a published poet.  The only two good poems I've written show up in a journal called _Zaum_, published by Sonoma State U.  _Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!_  Oddly, I was actually more delighted by the fact that I got mail for once than for becoming somehow "important."  I'd be more excited, but somehow I've rationalized my way out of being impressed with myself.  Never accuse me of being satisfied with anything I do.       

I learned an important lesson in writing this.  Chaptered stories=lots more reviews!  So, in an attempt to appear democratic, I will put up my story ideas for a vote.  Which would you like me to write next?  Keep in mind that I'll probably just end up writing whatever I feel like writing anyway.  Don't take it too seriously.  Oh, yes, and I have no claim on these ideas, so if something sparks an idea in your mind, feel free to run with it.

· Romulan torture story—involving capture, rescue, disobeying orders, and The Meaning Of Friendship

· Monkeys are loosed on the _Enterprise_, resulting in hijinks and hilarity

· Another random shore leave story

· McCoy's first few days on the _Enterprise_, wherein he first meets Kirk, Spock, etc.

In the meantime, I'll continue _Versus_, put up _Kironide Poisoning_ (which I don't entirely like), and another (!) McCoy story.


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